At 23:16 it wasn't coming. So I thought don't panic. It may come later. It may not even come tonight. That doesn't matter. There's no rush. And then I found that in the act of transcribing these thoughts, it had come.

Time zips by. Boredom is unfathomable. Thoughts flow from my scribbling fingers, easily. Consciousness is a fascinating thing. What else is there?

At 23:22 on A Wednesday evening, nothing. Or at any other time, for that matter.

Those are some words that just came out of my mind, for all of you to ponder. Of course that's just a flash of something infinitely vaster, deeper. Inscrutable, ineffable. This is where art and music works and writing falls shorts.

Trying to conjure up some thoughts and ideas. Not much doing. Could try composing something about a certain luscious wee lassie. That tends to keep me amused. I've had coffee for mental energy. On to wine now to take the edge off the caffeine induced tension I seem to be predisposed to. Wine will relax me and the thoughts will flow freely through me. I will transcribe them in a hypnotised state. I will be able to shut all the other shite out and just focus!
That is if the fuckin' dug shuts up man nippin' ma fuckin' heid. Scratchin' the flair for reasons beyond anyone's ken. He's hyped up after having been for a walk wi' ma da. Pacin' aboot, restless as fuck. There, he's sat doon now.
So anyway. The luscious wee lassie. Mibby I could craft sone sort of soppy tale about her. Some sentimental shite. Channel the longing I seem to have regrettably developed for her.
Man I'd like to drink some wine with this wee chick in a like cosy setting. Now I'm imagining tricklin' wine doon her supple young breasts, or thighs. Lapping it off. Christ, I'm a sick old dog.
The mind needs something to preoccupy it. For some reason, unrealistic scenarios, ie fantasies, seem to come into play a bit too often. Ah mang.
I'm fairly lonely but I'm not exactly unhappy about this state of affairs. I live in my own head a lot of the time. I ruminate, meditate. Contemplate. It's all empty. Ma heid's empty. Fulla shite.
I want tae kiss the luscious wee lassie tenderly. I imagine dropping her off after work, leaning in a for a fleeting hesitant kiss. Christ, man. Then she'd be out the car, disappear into the house with an excited smile. And I'd drive off, roaring with joy, grinning like a fool. That's what life's all about these short lived euphorias. You find them where you can. And if you cannae find them, you ruminate on them, write about them even. I want to press my nose against her head, against her black hair. I want to cuddle her and explore her body in a blissful wine delerium.