“Why, Mr. Anderson? Why do you do it? Why get up? Why keep fighting?..You must be able to see it, Mr. Anderson. You must know it by now. You can't win. It's pointless to keep fighting. Why, Mr. Anderson? Why? Why do you persist?”

“Because I choose to.”

Still sick, and seeing the world from a strange perspective. Its strange to be both isolated and surounded by people. I think thats just the cold medication talking.

Making absinthe ice cream topping tomorrow. I've got two bottles, what else am I gonna do with the stuff?

So yes, it's two thirty in the morning, the latest I've been up in ages (god, when did I ever think id say that?) and I'm feeling a bit better. Right side of my face is a solid mass of pain and congestion. The left side is taking its turn to bleed today, the reverse of yesterday.

Strange, how suddenly Victorian the world seems. I find myself dreaming of a bar somewhere in London or Dublin, near the river in either case, where I watch the ships move up the river, the myriad of peoples moving through the port. Absinthe in one glass, scotch and water in another, alternating, looking out through a haze of smoke and fog.

Somewhere in the shadows, rats scamper.

How strange to find myself back in front of my keyboard, looking into this digital dream, my ears filled with electronic tribal and classical, the strange blend that is Don Davis and Juno Reactor.

Beyond the senses is the mind, and beyond the mind is reason, its essence.
Beyond reason is the Spirit in man, and beyond this is the Spirit of the Universe, the evolver of all.

Step, step, step, slowly climbing this stairway to heaven, you obnoxious little frog.