It was everything that had gone before that made him feel so pathetically unhappy. There was years of it, his life. The thought of his even being allowed an existence he found so utterly repellent he retched, went to the kitchen sink and threw up. All was elsewhere, outwith his consciousness and physical environment. He had no control. Felt no longer human. Then, if one was so inclined, it was not even just his own life but, one could look in history books or talk to people who belonged to an older generation. These older ones made him feel there was something rancid within him. Rotting with every passing second and sub-section of a second. Down to the tiniest infinitesimal fraction of time. Fuck me. What was it? The thing! the thing whatever it was, whatever the fuck it was all for. He had to confess; admit to himself he did not know. He knew precisely fuck all, really, really he knew precisely fuck all. He was dimwittage personified, perhaps it was just that he had no sense of humour and no ability at all to laugh at himself. And he had this bad habit too of putting too much garlic in all his food, so always smelled of the stuff. Down at the tiniest infinitesimal fraction of time. Fuck me, that wee! there was a vista and a horizon and sounds of laughter and christ that was just the present and it was aw awright. Maybe he had been poisoned by something? Descartes, that's what it would be. The body and soul dichotomy. he laughed out loud and forgot the whole fucking business with the spewing. It wisnae worth dwelling upon.

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