Madness returns

In 2007 a volcano exploded. Out spewed A Season in Hell. A whirlwind, composed of booze and Tatiana, followed, and, when the dust settled, I looked in the dirty bathroom mirror--lit, weirdly, by a desk lamp--and saw a thin grey cat. Part aesthete, part recluse, but cursed with a sandpaper tongue. 

Six hours a day I run, but can't escape confusion. Tired and twitching I dream of murdering aliens--brutally--a smashing of their spaceship, a slitting of their throats--but the world is angry with me because such brutalised bodies are of no use to science. Well, what I can say... I was caught in the moment. 

Last night I confessed to my girlfriend that I had sex with an elf. But it was purely psychological. 

I tried to write a saga but could not make it sensible as my reality is fragmented and backwards. I blame those little green messages pretending to be red. Instead of work I dream of being alone in volcanic landscape, the meaning deepening knowing there is no one to share it, except, perhaps, for some hidden folk in the moss and rocks. 

They demand no explanation and invite me to the party. 

There's little in the taste to distinguish the vodka from water and the madness has returned worse than ever. It does that. Between two worlds on a tourist's bus, Dante's midlife crisis is called to mind. All I can say is Alexandra Palace belongs to the people and Massari seems unaffected by the economic crisis. And I wonder why parting is full of ice and fire.