Writing on a blog is a technique to anchor ourselves to something imaginary like a net page. When i feel completely lost, i try to grasp the immaterial spiting myself in the direction of the wind. What will come back to me, and whether it will, who knows.

When i feel completely lost I write and blog more.

I tried to change house, friends, city, hobbies, job. My hobbies tend to become my profession, and when i am obliged to improve, i silently feed a new brave passion.

Oh, what a luck, some said. Luck… These days i am having so many dreadful visions i think i am terribly sick. Off course I see ghosts, but i don’t care. I only get scared when I hear weird noises, and this is not happening yet. Some people are sound-control freak. "Hey excuse me, excuse me Sir, Sir… Where is this sound coming from?" Can i ask you a question? Can you hear this sound too? A friend of mine, long time ago, told me a story about herself, thinking of becoming crazy, because of hearing a continuous, almost never ending blip. No doctor could explain the reason why, no psychologist made sense of it. One day, a great musician told her: "Can you describe this sound to me, please?"

It turned out to be nothing else than the 50/60 Hz in the wall sockets.

About changes and transformations, and passion and work, i fear there is nothing else for me: i am slowly detaching from sentimental flesh. My brain is now the organ of arousal, and, if i could stop smoking pot, if i can detoxify myself from sex, and i am able to abstract my person to the airy world of theory, still i did not succeed in acupuncture my relation with machines.

I am terribly attracted by them…

If ghosts are harmless, imagination can be perverse, insidious, tricky.

I go to a public toilet, and while the image of the male’s urinal is passing in front of my eyes, reality is juxtapose by another picture, and the urinal is full of blood, while someone is drinking it. Whatever, it’s just a vision, like the dead child i had the impression to spot while searching for a pair of shoes in the commercial street, a dead child carried by his mum in the pram.

I am not impressed by these plus-pictures, the images of an increased reality, reality becoming symbolic because of boredom, and madness. Some days this happens a lot , seldom it doesn’t. I don’t really imagine sounds, I listen to sound. I can have jingles in my brain, but i do not spot sound that is not real very often. Sound hallucinations are incredible.