Mushroom Talk

What on Earth does one write when one has absolutely no means of knowing the direction of the ink beyond forming letters? What story lives unconscious in the very threads which hold this physical plane? How can you begin when the very existence of this place as we understand it is questionable and wholly uncertain? And so yes, we all roll and pace to the rhythm; lull high lull high, but what external meaning can we give to this rhythm, however strong, however palpable, however utopian?

And yet why know?


How would I alter if I knew this truth and the many others that no one has even come close to? Maybe, and most probably, there is something beyond our little plane, beyond the music and gunshots and engine murmur which  make our tiny home crawl and hum with life. Maybe, and most probably, this inexplicable, incomprehensible thing is undetectable through all of our expensive scientific experiments and we shall never, ever know it.

Are we being watched?

Billions of people think they know the answer to this question. I wish I could find someone who could tell me the right one, and tell it me straight. But even if someone did, I bet I wouldn't believe them. I suppose I'll just have to set to work finding out for myself.


One voice amongst millions of others is sure to be drowned out in the humdrum dumbness of its people. Even the bombs, bass and missile launches cannot be heard from space. It seems that we are but a pixel.