The Finger


Life has been exceptionally difficult of late. Two stints in hospital. Abnormal ECGs. Overworked and underpaid kidneys. A savage muscle biopsy. The subsequent infection. Morphine night terrors. And the ever predictable and unwavering mortality crisis doing jazz hands in the limelight… infinitum…..compulsory-mind-wank……yawn….

Whenever unwell and vulnerable, our ability to distinguish who might actually be whom whenever wearing masks becomes even more unreliable, and ever more necessary. I am not referring to rightful pseudo-compulsory medical mask wearing, but the ones we all present in order to get what we want.

All I want right now, is to retreat and delve into this Penguin Modern Collection until I remember how to screw my head back on tighter than the cap on my toothpaste tube. I too, ooze. My current choice, ‘The Finger’, by William Burroughs – delightfully fucked up as ever – along with the rest of the Beat Generation, may well be the perfect poison to medicine ratio suited only for the soul.

Treat yourselves, and give life the finger 😊

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