Fatbergs under London

Life is a metaphor

The headlines amuse and abuse with regularity and spontaneity, like a flame of blue ice,
like the hope that resignation affords those who believe.

The above paragraph makes no sense whatsoever.

I mine my memory for inspiration,
seeking to expel the pain in my heart in the most profitable fashion. I can't seem to escape my multiple neuroses so I must find a way to exploit them financially. I'm talking about storytelling.

I can't seem to think well as of late, though it's been said I never could.

It's another day and I've had another drink; do you think you really wanna think in tandem when all our gears are stretched beyond hope and back?

I wonder if there's a name for the splendid elixir I've
concocted- Drambuie and soda with fresh squeezed lime.

Author's Note

Automatic typing