tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52556072007-03-08T11:27:39.708ZPaulBlogger241tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-1111320860816218122005-03-20T12:13:00.000Z2005-03-24T10:13:32.103Z

I sit at the same table, in the same cafe, thinking the same thoughts. I try to work out, if I don't intervene, how long I have left to live. One hour. One day. One month. One year. Or two, or three, or just a few seconds. If I made the decision then I would have the power to determine this for myself. I could leave here, stand up, push my chair back and walk out, letting the door swing shut

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-1099913150153022672004-11-08T10:54:00.000Z2004-11-08T11:30:01.220Z

Friday night highlight. Blonde - brunette girl-on-girl action, moans down the phone line. Masturbation. Wanking. Bored life culminating in a release into an encrusted white handkerchief. Life exploding into nothing. Capturing life. Stained. Soiled. Yellow splashes paraded across the virginal. Gasp of relief mingles with the groans and pleasures. Blonde sliding over brunette. Female. Feminine.

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-1098893316210120132004-10-27T15:26:00.000Z2004-10-27T21:22:45.043Z

Mosaic Netscape Internet Explorer Mozilla / Firefox Opera Maxthon Lynx Amaya Above is a list of all the web browsers I have tried over the years I have been using the World Wide Web. At the moment I am using Maxthon (an IE derived browser) and, if I stop using it, I will probably end up using Lynx for the majority of my browsing. Why? Mainly because all of them are designed to do the

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921689872003-04-07T19:50:00.000Z2004-06-10T07:16:17.200Z

Malc Hutchinson looked at the cold white glow. It should've been burning his eyes out - melting them in their sockets, dribbling down his face while he screamed in agony - it should've been hot. It was hot. Unimaginable heat. However, at this moment, in this situation it was cold. "Zoom out some more," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. The glow started to recede from

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921691182003-04-07T19:52:00.000Z2004-06-10T07:15:49.980Z

The alarm rang. The strident electronic beep pierced her dreams. She opened her eyes, a hand raised from the warmth of the duvet, wiping the sticky fluid from them; a piece of yellowed crust pushed onto her cheek. Fuck. She turned her head, squinted. Blurred digital characters coming into sloppy focus. Must be wrong, can't be right. Head lifted from pillow, sleep threatening to push it

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921693812003-04-07T19:56:00.000Z2004-06-10T07:15:20.816Z

TOMORROW Samantha opened her eyes. The sun was shining onto her face through the gap in the curtains. She turned her head to look at the digital clock on the bedside table. 10:00. The red 'colon' blinked at her indicating the seconds passing. As she watched the last zero changed to a one. She felt as though she'd had a lie in. She couldn't justify staying in bed any longer. She stretched

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921511372003-04-07T14:44:00.000Z2004-06-10T07:13:59.510Z

"These days one has to work so hard. You don't have the time or energy to take girls out for dinner, especially when you can't guarantee you're going to pull at the end of it. It's so much easier to get a girl to dance for you and chat with you in a club." Ticket To Writhe, Telegraph Magazine, 20 October 2001 ------- From a bird's eye vantage point, nestled up amongst the metal supports

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921542132003-04-07T15:37:00.000Z2003-06-27T21:24:45.650Z

They stood in the sun smoking cigarettes continuously, crushing them out on the ground with their feet before lighting up another. One of them sat down. They looked like old peasant Mafioso, metaphorical guns hidden under their worn suit jackets, guarding the don's villa in the heat of a Sicilian summer. This was England at about three in the afternoon. I lay on the grass finishing my eighth

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921685582003-04-07T19:43:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:58:21.753Z

The man sucked on the last vestiges of his cannabis stick. He flicked the smouldering stub against the nearest wall, watching the sparks fly before he turned and stepped onto the podium. He surveyed the silence before him. Oxies danced in frenzy as their surgically implanted oxygen purifiers fed them nothing but oxygen. Pure. Their gaunt bodies spiralling to their own weird rhythms, oxygen masks

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921686162003-04-07T19:44:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:56:30.423Z

If there'd been a noise she could have understood. There had been no noise. Only an absence of sound. Silence, but the only type of silence that was absent from noise. A sound had disappeared. A sound so familiar and ordinary that it was deafening in it's absence. No regular thump, no feeling of continuance, just an empty, cloying silence. She was aware. Aware of spatial surroundings. Aware of

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921686592003-04-07T19:44:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:53:08.706Z

he sat at the wooden formica table his elbow stood a few centimetres away from a cooling puddle of mud coloured coffee in a few moments the liquid would be cold he stared out of the window watching the people walk past opposite him was the town hall its union jack flying at half mast he could see the sadness on their faces walking past not thinking about themselves hearing the voices inside their

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921687772003-04-07T19:46:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:51:21.880Z

It's easy to create an impression on the world when you are younger, albeit briefly. It's more satisfying. Standing there watching the lines appear, steam rising from the cold ground, the white staining yellow. Lines in the snow. You think it's not supposed to be like this. Most people you know are married, a few have children on the way, not that you want kids. Not yet. Or be married. It

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921688232003-04-07T19:47:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:50:53.046Z

He sat staring into the swirling milk in the coffee cup. The milk spun round in a slow anti-clockwise motion, the blackness turning brown on each turn. He could feel someone watching him. Eyes on the back of his neck, paranoia gripping him by the throat. "Have you seen this man ?" he said, producing a curled photograph, showing it to the woman in front of him. "Let me see." she said. "

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921688682003-04-07T19:48:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:50:24.730Z

This could've been an interesting and erotic study of one woman's countless sexual encounters, many of them with multiple partners. Maybe in its native French it has more appeal but the English translation, to quote the cliche, definetly seems to lose something. It is either badly written or badly translated, either way it becomes more of a catalogue of emotionless sex, rather than a

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921688992003-04-07T19:48:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:49:50.160Z

Written after the Columbine school shootings, Twelve by Nick McDonnell, portrays the empty and pointless lives - as viewed from the outside - of a group of Manhattan socialite teenagers. Rich kids who have everything but can't get what they really want - sex, drugs and 'to be cool'. In this world everything is a commodity and 'goods' are bargained and bartered for - sex for drugs, drugs for

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921540292003-04-07T15:34:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:47:50.486Z

Dark. Light. Colour. Shape. Form. Her eyes were open. Information flooded in. Detailing a room full of memories. The sofa where she'd first made love to the man who'd left her for an artificial. The brown stain on the white, worn rug by the fireplace where she'd spilt coffee when she'd first moved into the third floor apartment. One of many in a high-rise tenement in the middle of the

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921691612003-04-07T19:53:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:47:16.310Z

neon colours mixed with aural delights booming from inside the white building rain splattered against tarmac puddles filling with colour rippling with sound people coursing out of the building drink inside turning heavy bile rising in throats causing them to cough and gag a girl kneeling head down in a doorway throwing her night up hearing it splattering against the glass fronted door a sunday

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921534082003-04-07T15:23:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:46:45.023Z

They stared into each others eyes. They glimpsed their own reflections. They realised they were staring at themelves. She looked at him from across the table. He was staring out of the window onto the streets of Paris, at the people milling around inside of their own realities, each one oblivious to the lives playing themselves out within the cafe. Two different worlds seperated by a

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921692512003-04-07T19:54:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:45:57.266Z

The sky broods. Grey clouds scud across it, vagabonds joining together, creating a group of like-minded individuals - separate personalities swallowed into the whole. Minority becoming the majority. The black clothed stand outside the record shop, cut-outs in the landscape, a body darkness swallowing the light, a void of thought and interest. Each one in regulation nu-metal emblazoned, hooded

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921693442003-04-07T19:56:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:44:31.473Z

She sits. Cross-legged on a chair. Smoking. Cigarette held between black gloved fingers, sparkling in the neon glare. Smoke tendrils escaping, slowly, from cherry perfect lips. Dark smudged eyes. Eyes of a junkie requiring a fix. Fashion. Fashionable. Heroin-e chic. Eyes stare, straight ahead, looking towards the horizon. Not seeing what sits in front of her. Worshipped not seeing worshipper.

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921694392003-04-07T19:57:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:31:27.156Z

See the sadness on their faces. Walking past along the crowded pavements. Each one holding anguish which should be more personal. This is not the loss of a loved one. This is the loss of someone who was known. An entertainment. A life they did not know. Someone they held in their hearts - pumping cartoon life around their bodies; filling the veins and arteries with hope and imagined in their

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921695712003-04-07T19:59:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:30:59.306Z

psy-chom-e-try - The ability or art of divining information about people or events associated with an object solely by touching or being near to it. -- clickety clack clickety clack Warmth in the darkness. Closeness. Together. clickety clack clickety clack Breathing. Someone crying. clickety clack clickety clack Movement. Feeling of motion. Swaying and slowing down.

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921794372003-04-07T22:46:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:30:37.523Z

If hell is other people then what is heaven? I pop another capsule into my mouth. Feel it against my tongue, allowing it to rest there, in limbo, in stasis, the bitter taste seeping from it a minor irritation. I can feel it dissolving, fizzy on the muscle, my own saliva breaking it down, allowing it to seep, dissolve into me. I think I can feel it. Feel the essence breaking into my body,

Paultag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5255607.post-921794832003-04-07T22:47:00.000Z2003-06-27T17:16:07.046Z

Sitting relaxed, double espresso in cup and saucer minimalist white smoke, hint of dirty yellow, rising from half enjoyed cigarette held in hand hung over arm of metal tubed ? perfect circles punched in back ? chair. Flick. Ash drops on black tarmac. People walk past. Cute girls in denim; slim office women in smart casuals; naturalistic faces partnered with over painted faceless friends. Modern

Paul