It's six am and I can't sleep and I think that part of that could be.. well, you remember when Johnson had Covid and he was on the ventilators and so on? At that time I remember thinking it's sort of sad and maybe part of me hoped that he would survive. I'm not really a religious or superstitious etc kinda person but at times such as this, this one thought creeps into my mind and torments me. What if there is some kind of I dunno how to describe it, but what if there is some kind of cosmic karmic collective consciousness that can, in moments when things are in the balance like that, can come to the foreground. Mainly too weak to really affect the general situation, but right then when it was on a knife-edge, if I had kept the faith and held my nerve and carried on doing the right thing, just wished really hard that he would die then would it have somehow tipped that delicate omniversal seesaw? Does my understandable yet unforgivable human weakness at that moment bear some tiny part of the responsibility for allowing the beast to somehow cling to its facsimile of life?
At times like this I can all too easily picture this horribly blobby, softly malevolent conglomeration of wallpaper paste, straw and privilege, and banal pseudo-learning stretching out its antennae from deep in its slimy ventilator pit, randomly squirting them out in every direction and straining with the final fading remnants of its bloated strength to find one last gullible fool to fasten on to and drag itself back into our dimension. Like some hideous inversion of the scene in Peter Pan when Tinkerbell needs to find just one child who believes in fairies. And that's my waking nightmare, that it found me and my pernicious weakness, a crack into which it could insert a horribly deformed toe, festooned along its pasty white length with sweaty man tits... and that that toehold was enough for it to somehow lever itself back to existence.
I want to apologise to you all, to everyone out there, even to the aberration itself which surely if it could for only the merest instant begin to acknowledge its nature - a twisted soul imprisoned in a cruel parody of mind, so impossibly bent in on itself that each quivering cancerous rotting lump melds into the next braying piece without any space for the tiniest spark of decency of kindness or honesty - would grasp oblivion with as many limbs as were available, pulling down darkness on it forever to hide its shame.