This morning, I woke up semi sober, which is rare nowadays. It’s one of those windows between the periods of catatonic fogs completely envelope me and render me intellectually incapacitated. I thought while I still retain a shred of clarity, I should write stuff down before all is gone again.
I watched Mayans M.C. on BBCiPlayer. I was very surprised as orthodox as the BBC is, it actually bought such a show with violent content and racial minorities as lead roles, well fuck me, what do you know, for a minute I almost forgot which side the white boys’ propaganda machine is on.
Like clockwork, I woke up early. Today is Sunday, makes no difference. I am a machine. Sliding in my soft woolly pyjamas, I jumped out of bed with burning questions bumping around in my head. Questions such as where are the pieces of evidence of William Shakespeare’s ten thousand hours? How did he know what was going on in Danmark, Venice and fair Verona? Why he both started and stopped writing so abruptly?
