Flavigula

Here lies Martes Flavigula, eternally beneath the splintered earth.


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Fri, 09 Sep, 2022 00.00 UTC

My alimentary habits have left my brain soggy this morning. I know there are certain things I should not eat, yet a voice from one of my internal modules tells another internal module that something would taste good. Or, and in the case of yesterday, that whispering module mentions to other modules that I should go with the flow and eat what everyone else is eating - join the crowd - be a part! So I accompanied my mother to Dairy Queen after our stint at the casino to procure three Hungr-Busters and two large fries. My Hungr-Buster also contained jalapeños and bacon, though it was obvious that the latter was largely missing from the finished product. With my parents, I consumed the food. Even before my plunge into the death-like state that is slumber, I felt the results of my folly. Mental acuity was muffled. Tingling sensations carpeted my living corpse. Were I a rat, I’d never eat a Hungr-Buster or anything resembling a Hungr-Buster again. Rats learn. Obviously, I do not.

Olšanské Hřbitovy is more or less done. By more or less done I mean that the current iteration is more or less done. I already know several parts will be updated again after said iteration is finished. These updates will be minor, however, in comparison to the work I’ve done over the last days. I write more or less done because there is a final part that needs revamping. It’s a problematic one because it is the climax of the first half of the piece and involves interlocking melodic structures and therefore must be done convincingly (to me and to the alien archaeologists who eventually find the remains of our species and come across the only piece of art left in existence - the very piece of music I’m writing about). A further complication is that my brain is used to hearing it as it is now. Familiarity tells me that’s the way it should be. I know otherwise. Most probably I’ll decompose the whole thing and replay it all with additions, subtractions and pummelling. Though I may appear to complain, I shall enjoy the process. Immensely.

The mist that occupies my forebrain bids this entry farewell. Fuck um.

Along with martens, goulish goats and the rippling fen -
these writings 1993-2023 by Bob Murry Shelton are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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