Calendars and clocks are yet another thing that humans have devised or, more aptly said imagined up, to set the “world” into a line. Humans love forcing events into linear existence. Humans love to categorize and to even imagine capricious lines that are drawn through an arbitrary construct (time). Their craving for order and reason is obsessive. The ambience I just crammed loopingly into El Capistan also unfolds over so-called time and in a so-called linear fashion. I wonder sometimes since we all perceive (or vnímat, as they say in the ancient lands) time slightly differently if we also hear music differently. I suppose so, said the naked vůl sitting plucking away at his mechanical keyboard. Perhaps it is as we see events as a whole (for what is music but a jumbled set of events?) unfolding in a discreet or overlapping manner depending on our mental state and ability to concentrate.

Naturally, these thoughts were spawned from the turning of the solar “clock” last night. We walked aimlessly to Vyšehrad and watched exploding powder create color in the sky from multitudinous sources. I commented to my lovely Ivanečka that I am happy that there is no centralized firework site controlled by the nefarious state that sends up mesmerising signals in the form of colorful fire to brainwash the Czech folk into thinking that there is some defined line between 2025 and 2026 instead of a wholly imagined human construct that has little to do with “natural” reality. Instead, to my pleasure, we got rozmanité firework displays undertook by private individuals who possibly had equally as much intention as the “state” to brainwash the fine Czech folk into believing that there is some defined line between 2025 and 2026 with their elegantly aleatoric exploding powder extravaganzas.

A good “New Year”’s resolution is to not sit or stand or run or jog or saunter or stumble around placing events into linear frameworks in my mind to “make sense” of the world. One form of bliss is the release from understanding that obsessing over rigidity is a precursor to general stress, unhappiness, destitution, death and pestilence. In the selfsame way, music should be touched by the concept, as well. One can blur linear forms into tiered and overlapping ideas. I’ve experimented with such things before, but I must admit that a great deal of my composing, though quite satisfactory to me in many ways, over the last epoch has resulted in pieces consisting of discrete parts tied together by melodic and harmonic ideas. Um, and also rhythmic ideas as rhythmic modulation has been tooting my muffin for quite some time now. This may involve bouts with polytonality given my penchant for modal composition. Fuck um.

El Capistan still spouts the ambient idea (taken from bits of Mouth of the Mammoth) I crammed into its maw before beginning to type. I jacked up the Wow & Flutter just now so it more quickly mangles itself into something unrecognizable and possibly even more pleasant. In fact, I think I’ll sample it into Herr James Burgess and further mangle it with the Morphagene. Oouh baby! What a way to start an imaginary human collection of events based loosely on the planet’s movement around the “sun”!

I’m sitting at the Grand Chalice Hotel in Brno. Is it called the Grand Chalice? I don’t think so. So, I am sitting in the Grand Chakalaka Hotel in Brno. Is it called the Grand Chakalaka? I don’t think so. So, I am sitting in the Grand Chortle Hotel in Brno in my and my fantastic woman (Ivanečka!)’s room after a trip to Boby Centrum to “drop her off” and then a similar return trip on tram 6. After her zažítek today, we shall return to Praha by train. Peiločja and Luki will be awaiting in their respective domiciles.

Since I am wearing my Church of Hawkwind shirt, I thought I’d put on Church of Hawkwind as background during this journaling session. It’s music that has accompanied me during many work sessions in my life. Well, maybe just one other that I can think of, actually, and that was at Microsoft in 1998 during an all-night work binge. But I’m sure I’ve used it in other similar circumstances. Why wouldn’t I? Songs like Star Cannibal always conjure up a work atmosphere. In fact, that particular song should be the anthem of work worldwide. Let it be so.

Ivanečka was also at her zažítek during the whole of yesterday, and even longer than we planned, or than either of us expected. She thought (or was told?) it ended at 18.00, but when I showed up to “pick her up”, she informed me that it was but another pauza. Of course I told her that we were in Brno for her, so she should stay for the remainder and I’ll return to “pick her up” once again at 20.00. I was delighted when, an hour later, I had arrived to our hotel room (the very hotel room and indeed in the very place I am sitting as I write this now), my “telephone” lit up with her image and after asking me where I was, informed me that she had left. She wanted to be with me. If that is not pure joy, then let each of my atoms find its place among the heat death of the universe this very day!

We spent the next series of endless moments exploring the centrum of Brno in its Xmas season state. We visited three náměstí, all of which were packed with humans milling and standing about holding bramboráky that dripped oil into puddles about their feet, marking those instants of their lives evermore. Live bands created music in each náměstí, a mish-mash of Ameri-British 80s pop with a smattering of (what I assume were) Czech hits thrown in. Everyone seemed like they were digging it, so why the FUCK not?

Ivanečka was quite impressed by the centrum, actually. She commented quite a lot about the architecture and also the relative cleanliness of the buildings themselves. Relative to Praha, I assumed. I, myself, was impressed by the atmosphere and how modern the interiors of many of the buildings were, especially those that housed restaurants, kavarny and dimensional gateways to far away solar-systems. The atmosphere also made an impression on my lovely Ivanečka. Of course, we must take into consideration the effort the city itself must have made to create a certain atmosphere during the time of Xmas. They really did their best to put the X back into Xmas.

One thought that came to mind and that the two of us discussed during our stroll is that samozřejmě Praha must have the same sort of “activities” and “atmospheres” during the Xmas time, but we sort of miss um because we don’t go out as tourists in Praha. In fact, I can’t recall the last time I was at Vaclávské Náměstí or Staroměstské Náměstí during late evening or night. I did relate to her the tale of my first Silvestr in Praha during which Loyal, Suzie, Craig and I left a trail of destruction, littered glass and ruined lives on New Year’s Eve. Praha’s centrum was indeed filled with people, but I have the impression (even though it is just a distant memory now) that most of the Praha crowd were not in fact from Praha, but were, like Loyal, et. al., just enjoying the general debauchery of a distant land during the “holiday” season. Our tour of Brno last night gave me a wholly different impression that the people enjoying the evening were locals, or at least most of them.

Yesterday, I discovered an Indian restaurant close to Boby Centrum dubbed The Light of India and consumed Dal there. I also ordered Ivanečka Dal after being told by the kind Indian caretaker of said restaurant that what I actually ordered contained no lactose at all. Bitchin’ cookies. Originally, I had selected a type of palak for my love to consume when her lunchtime came ‘round at 13.00, but since palak is usually made with cream, they’d’ve had to modify it substantially. In the end, it was the marvelous Dal. Bitchin’ cookies once again. Also - I’m not sure why I didn’t think of it at the time - perhaps because I wanted to find a place I could sit with Lajdácký and program - I consumed my portion of the exquisite Dal alone instead of simply waiting for Ivanečka’s lunch and consuming the exquisite Dal alongside her. Today I shall remedy this mistake by going directly to The Light of India with her when she breaks for lunch.

My plan now is to continue listening to Church of Hawkwind (90s edition) as I pack every last crumb of our material possessions that are scattered about the hotel room. Then I shall check out of the Grand Chapped Buttocks Hotel and then take tram 12 or 4 or walk or shamble or stumble or crawl or ooze to Hlavní Nádraží to store the kufr and jidelní taška in either a storage locker or dimensional gateway, whichever I find first. As I wrote earlier, we depart this evening.

I am in Brno for the first time in a series of practically infinite moments. The trail that led me away from here and then eventually led me back is complex and not necessarily coherent. And, after all, that is life. We only desperately place together meaning in retrospect where, really, there is none to be had, only our yearning for something more than the twisting, looping, crooked and staggered path we trace through our existence. Here, then gone, briefly making scribbles already beginning to fade on the parchment of our age. Fuck um, I say. Obey no others’ rules but one’s own. Be slaves to duty and cultural pressure on longer. Discard your useless upbriging and peer directly into the only future you have with no baggage from childhood dreams, adolescent fantasies or a young man’s cunning but ultimately useless ambition.

I am in Brno for the first time in a series of practically unnoticebale moments. Memory is a jokester. Though I understand that many years have passed, what I recognize is minimal so far. Moravské Náměstí remains mostly intact after the weathered years. It was there I met the Smaller One after she performed an obscene alteration to her heady folicles. I suspose that memory is mostly intact. It was night, but the trams crissed and crossed the same as they still do today. The bookstore I used to spend days sitting at and reading Bukowski and McEwen is still there. When I say days, I mean during the day whilst the Smaller One was occupied by schooling or somesuch. It was a weird time. I was caught between by loniliness, an alcholism festering beneath, my desire to be with someone who at least partially respected me for who I was, and a suppressed creativity that threatened at any moment to burst through and swallow both me and everything in my vicinity both physically and emotionally. Perhaps it eventually did.

At the flat in Židenice that I refuse to let nostalgia lure me back to, I mused over the first versions of portions of Seven Draperies - the so-called Magnum Opus I’ve been waiting to finish since my first lyrical sketches in 1999 overlooking the Danube and waiting to board a ferry where now there is a bridge, obliterating again another “purity” of memory. Sometimes I get it when these old conservative assholes bitch and whine about how things used to be and how progress has erased everything “sacred” in the near multiverse. Humans long for anchors. Living life adrift is difficult. I well know because I did it for thousands of epochs and inbetween each of those epochs puttered about with temporary anchors whose tethers to my bone and hide eventually frayed setting me loose again. Ah, Sweet Entropy. I belive it is appropriate to lay that term to rest. It’s truly sad when you find yourself locking in conversation with those who hold on to anchors that are now in a mystical past which only is accessible by the motheaten cloth of memory.

So, for me, possibly my point is that Brno was the birth of the melodies that will result in my so-called Magnum Opus -> Seven Draperies. I’ll get to work on it sometime this decade, you can be sure, honeybuničko. The pseudo-indian dude who just asked me how my Dal was agrees with my assessment. Speaking of nostalgia and memory, I believe this Indian Restaurant, dubbed The Light of India, was once a restaurant called something akin to Aura. My tattered memory, however, could well be mistaken and I am not disturbed in the least by that “fact”. The Smaller One and I used to come to Aura “often”, or more like “občas”, but the only remaning possibly quite false memory that lingers is of a badly baked stuffed lilek. Since that time, the only baked lilky I eat are the ones I prepare myself. Fucking up baked liliek will furthermore be punished by amnesia. I believe it will create a troop of simply better people, not to mention better baking fiends. No anchors to remember. No ropes or twine or tethers, frayed or not. Move forward. No more baggage from childhood dreams, adolescent fantasies or a young man’s cunning but ultimately useless ambition.

Yesterday was the anniversery of Lee’s demise. It’s been 32 years and it still affects me, though more these days in a nostalgic way. The melancholy doesn’t hit as hard as it used to. Humans pass out of this world all the time, I am aware, as is pretty much everyone since an early age. I just scribed a rhetorical statement. Though what a rhetorical statement might be is any human’s guess besides my own. Technically it would be a statment that requires no “reply”, or perhaps requires no comment or followup. What I meant was in the vernacular of so-called “dichos” that Lee used to use, although he, as well, knew that his usage was not technically correct. He meant a statement that needn’t be uttered in the first place. I’ll keep his usage for nostalgic and not so melancholic reasons. Also, Lee recognized that “dichos” are simply shortcuts. They are sloppy thinking. Instead of thinking deeply about a matter, one can spout a platitude and be done with it. Communication via “dichos” is an immediate sign that those communicating tak are to be evermore avoided like a plague rat or a frat boy (same thing, really).

So what did I do to “celebrate” his demise? Well, I broke my diet for a meal by going for Thai food with Ivanečka at the spiffy resaurant Noi near Ujezd. The food was exquisite but I think we were the only Czech people there apart from the serving wenches. I had my eternal favourite, Tom Kha Kai and a ground chicken speciality that reminded me of something similar I had with Jeremy in April at another particularly good Thai restaurant in Orlando. Also of note is that at said place with Jeremy, it seemed like we were also the only Czech people there.

I did not bring Lee up during, before or after our dinner, but Ivanečka was obviously worried about my state of mind a bit during the whole of the day. It is still bizarre to have someone with me that actually thinks and cares about my mood, mental and physically health in a selfless manner. I probably don’t deserve it, but as we all know, the universe has no ethical, moral or value system. We exist and live our lives. There is no deserve. Deserve is a human construct created to maintain a hierarchical structure in society. It’s a control mechanism, as has been all moralistic “reasoning” since the beginning of time. Unfortunately, the need for so many people to find exterior meaning in life (as opposed to creating meaning for oneself) obscures the path to contentment.

Of course, I did think of the music I should be creating that is associated with Lee. His “album”, as it were. It will be a gradual process, as I’ve only sketches to two pieces so far: the first and the last. After I finish the new Dobbs, the Alfred IV “tribute” and the thing that has the working title Dissolving Pool, I’ll get back on track working on one album at a time until it is finished. My personal experiment working on three or four at the same time is far less satisfying - it brings much less contentment.

Though this is certainly a fragmented entry into Martenblog, perhaps it will encourage me to get back on track concerning writing. It creates quite a sensation of contentment. For me, life is about looking and moving forward and being content doing so. Gone are the old ways of suffering to gain more creative ground. Perhaps that worked in my twenties and even perhaps in my thirties, but as I look back on those times (something I really have no business doing as it contradicts what I just stated that life is about), they seem like vast wastelands. Revisiting the past has very little merit.

I woke up and created my fifth Looptober abomination. It was enjoyable but took much longer than I thought it would. I did spend some time with Peiločja, but the plan was for Ivanečka to pick me up at 9.21.03 so we could be off to Berlin. However, she called me at some earlier point informing me that she was already in the car, though to go to Luki’s situated place to take Luki his forgotten keys. Then she was to proceed to my place.

The trip to Berlin was riddled with zacpy and took in whole about seven hours instead of the usual four and a half (I believe that in a traffic-less day, that would be the duration). We stopped three times to čurat (was it three? I believe so). I navigated us along “back roads” through myriad German villages until we finally arrived at the park and ride at about four.

U-bahn 6 took us to Stadtmitte and Ubahn-2 took us to Potsdammer Platz. Our hotel, where I sit now, is close to the latter. We had a few hours to walk around the surrounding area and during our wandering found a Cos. Ivanečka browsed for a winter coat and a shirt. She ended up buying nothing. I ended up with a shirt for myself a bit later, however.

Suzanne Vega began a bit after eight. We arrived at the Philhormonie about ten till eight. The concert was brilliant. She began with Marlene on the Wall and ended with Galway from the new album. I managed to kiss Ivanečka between most every song. All in all the concert was highly enjoyable and I was impressed especially by the guitarist, who used looping to layer parts for several songs. He also had a “drum” pedal, or perhaps prerecorded drum parts in a looper. A cellist also joined them. They could have played another hour and I would have still been transfixed.

We were back at the hotel by 10.30 or even before. We made brilliant love and fell asleep until the late hour of seven. It’s a little after seven now. I write whilst Ivanečka prepares herself for another walk around the Berlin environs.

I made a fantastic Medical Medium dinner. I baked small “cubes” of yam, cooked black beans with cumin from the dried nuggets that they were, and created red lentil “tortillas” along with various garnishes like koriandr, červená cibule and avokado. I arranged it all in an aesthetic manner in time for Ivanečka to come over and enjoy it all.

She went home by nine it time to have her lesson cancelled and I returned to Peiločja, who made sure to leap up to my side at one in the morning because in her small but potent mind she surely knew that I was leaving for Berlin in the morning.

A rose and its stem, or its lifeline, stretches from the base of a pitcher two thirds filled with water up into the still atmosphere of this flat and blossoms a radiant red at its zenith. I’m sitting at the table of work, amusement, victuals and study in Ivanečka’s flat in Prague 2 or in what some would call the outskirts of Vinohrady. It’s been just shy of seven weeks from the first time I met her in person. As these nigh-seven weeks have passed, we’ve become more and more consumed with one another. I say this in a decidedly non-cannibalistic way.

I’m not going to attempt any predictions at this moment for our future together, but I will say that we’ve already made extensive plans for the remainder of this year. I’ll also state that there have been no fights, no disagreements and not a single so-called red flag. Some would say that our relationship seems too perfect. I’d say to those who’d say that fuck um.

There is near silence in what I’d call the obývák. She is organizing the contents of the suitcases strewn about the floor and the piles of clothing on the sofa. I don’t mind the silence. Were we at my flat, music would gurgle from some possibly obfuscated source, but here, the distant drone of tumbling laundry and her soft, padding footsteps make sense.

There was also near silence yesterday in Stromovka as we sat slightly overlooking a “lake”. The rustle of the leaves above our heads was enough as we kissed and spoke softly of our present life and a few of the troubles she’s had recently with her family. Why has she had troubles with her family, you ask? Well, because of me, of course!

Lack of sufficient sleep since Saturday or even earlier has me bleary and with a slight pressure behind my eyes. The last few days have been weeks. The last seven weeks have been years. May it always remain so.

During the last five days, my life changed drastically. One expected and a number of unexpected things turned my mental state inside out. Or rather, chopped my mental state up and reassembled it in a manner that cannot be derearranged.

My mother died. This was the expected event. She even predicted it herself when she sat in her chair in the weeks before I left and yelled I just want to die! over and over. It was not a pleasant situation, as many might imagine. I have no intention of going back until a much later date for a number of reasons, the foremost being that after living in a hellish situation for eight months, I have no intention of returning to the same so soon after getting away. Secondly, there is the cat. I’m assuming most of the paperwork can be done from here - my part anyway.

Thinking about it, the foremost reason is not the one I stated. The other day I spent twenty-one hours with someone who will potentially become a very important part of my life and for this reason I’m simply not vanishing back to the states. Connections, for lack of a better word at the moment, like this do not come along often in life. No sleep was involved during that twenty-one hours. I still feel the effects. We related to each other on levels that I have not felt for a very long time. Of course, it wouldn’t be life if the situation wasn’t somewhat complicated. More explanation will surely come along in this puttering blog-thing eventually. Stay “tuned”.

Wheels are moving beneath me once again. How long has it been since I wrote that or a similar line? Years, for sure, but the last time must have been in Spain when I was last alone on a train. To Madrid? That would have been 2016, then, and the same day that I was arrested for pissing off a policeman, which is another reason that Spain is inferior to Czechia. Czechia! What a name! But I must have been alone on a train since then, no? No memory manifests in this quivering, sleep deprived brain.

So, wheels are moving beneath me once again. Though I am not exactly sure when the last time I wrote that line was (besides in the previous paragraph, of course, vole), I know the first time was on a train from Praha to Ustí nad Labem to visit Hela. The long lost Hela. In fact, I believe I began most all of my journal entries on the way to visit her with that or a similar line.

That being said, I hope I shall not be writing it many more times in the future. Sleeplessness and possibly repressed anxiety leaves me lately with the feeling that I do not want to travel. I ask myself what sort of adventure did you believe you were getting yourself into? Do you really like camping? What the fuck is wrong with you? You are no longer the person you were when you first came to the Czech Republic in 1998. Your tolerance and stamina have both decreased. And, more than anything, these careening days, I need a sort of central point of stability.

I’ve searched for this central point for quite some time. I believed I had it in Spain. In Logroño. I did have it in Logroño, but I abandoned it for some psychologically and most likely physically obscene reason. I wrote as an obsidian fragment earlier that the more people I meet, the more time I want to spend with my cat. This is truth, and very likely the entire universe’s only pungent truth, especially after meeting Helena last night. There is nothing “wrong” with Helena, per se, but I found it difficult to express myself, to capture what was within my mind and convey it to her in a, for lack of better clarity, gesticulatory manner. Looking back to when I was first in this country, I realize that much of my outgoingness was fueled by alcohol. And now, I both do not want to drink as much as I did and cannot handle drinking as much as I did. Drinking no alcohol at all would be ideal, even if it would mean leaving the veil of extroversion in tatters.

My feelings about leaving Peiločja alone for a day and night as I wheeled away from my new home this morning were frightful. I did not want to leave her alone. The more people I meet, the more time I want to spend with my cat. Can a cat provide as fulfilling a relationship as a human can? Well, that depends on the expectations. On the fucking očekávání. I’d say that for me, yes, or so I feel at the moment and have all morning. My original plan for Praha was to spend time with the cat and to spend time with music. Yes, I’d see Michal and Richard and Ivana and some other friends from time to time, but they’d never be the primary focus.

So am I making a mistake going to see Anna? I’d say yes, but the day will tell. Best to start with nízké očekávání and go from there. That’s what Peiločja told me this morning, and I’m a good listener. And that cat has been through so much that she deserves the bulk of my attention. The fact that I am already thinking about my return tomorrow more than what will occur later today does not bode well.

We shall see. Or, as they say in the old lands, fuck um.

The bench before the Trinity tree is occupied. It is occupied by me. My shadow doesn’t reach it. Perhaps my shadow is an illusion cast by the illusory sun. The Trinity tree is the only living thing left on the moon. I don’t consider myself in the set of living things since I am simply an extension.

I wrote that long ago, as the trinity tree no longer exists. Or, rather, it exists in a different form, that of stump. My associative mind reminds me of when I was a child, or during my imagination of being a child, as I am uncertain I was ever a child, during which I would create origami platonic forms, such as rectangular prisms, pyramids and such. I’d gaze at my creations for a time and then crush them much like the piece of music entitled drtič will eventually crush every living being that hears it. I was fascinated by the concept of something existing first in one form and then in another, altogether different form. Truly, it was the same object, but at a splendidly different state in its existence.

Though we all know that not a single cell in our body existed even eight years prior to now, as we self-regenerate, conceptually, I am the same object that existed eight years ago. I am now, however, in an altogether different form, and especially psychologically. My self-regenerated neural structure did not self-regenerate in a selfsame manner, vole.

When I wrote the above quote, it seems to me now that I was questioning my connection to the place in which I’ve been now, presently, for over seven months. No, I haven’t been sitting on the bench in front of the stump of the trinity tree for just over seven months, but I have been in its vicinity. If I was a mere shadow cast by a sun that was but an illusion, I think my sense of self was particularly intangible in that time. Has it become more concrete in this place during just over seven months? I think there is no better definition of Limbo than West Texas.

I suggest you try it. You may even, like I seemingly did, find your very existence become tenuous.

However, at the same time, I likened Pagan Park to the moon and the moon, indeed, is a lifeless place, or so I hear. If I was an extension of the moon, a lifeless place, was I a protuberance of that lifelessness or the likening of life emerging from inorganic material? In the same sense, were people like Bender-boy and I living growths spawned by the perpetual lack that is the desert itself? As I can’t claim the two of us to be the only growth from the large bleak plain of West Texas, I could possibly better liken us to spores that were birthed here but drifted outwards, taking with us the arid genetic makeup of this place. I’d liken the multitudinous other “growths” here to a fungal infection, but that would be slightly nasty and unsociable of me.

Today I had lunch with Bender-boy and Anne, his wife. We ate at an establishment in Andrews that exhibits properties of an excellent tex-mex restaurant, though it could be a brothel in Kazakhstan for all I know. My general perception of the world around me is coloured my delusions of being in another place - ANY OTHER PLACE.

Though, interestingly enough, Bender-boy and I emanated from this area of the world. Perhaps we even defined it. I can’t say that it defined us, as there is an alien psychology in any other “human” I meet from these parts. At least there has been recently - meaning within the past few epochs.

Today I had lunch with Bender-boy. I hadn’t seen him for 22 years, give or take a month. The cliché holds that our communication was quite like it was back then, as if no time had passed. Of course, we have communicated via electro trans-pacific means during the meantime, so the cliché doesn’t have the same weight as it might were we to have had no communication at all.

Sudden memories rose in my mind of time we defined together, and we did define time itself, as time itself was frozen within those memories. They are photographs and static. They are photographs - a far better medium than video.

In a way, we are ageless as our memory between us is, indeed, static. It is, indeed, a series of photographs. We pass through incremental stages of concrete recollections bordered on each side by hazier half-scenes from possible pasts. It occurs to me that unless I specifically created a concrete mental signpost for one reason or another, my recollections shared with others are the most vivid and significant.

Anne mentioned a death. At first I didn’t know what she was talking about, but finally it occurred to me that Bender-boy had mentioned the dead friend from the past at some moment or another. And perhaps at multiple moments. Lee, of course. So it has been decided that we’ll take a road trip to Pecos and to the grave. We’ll buy a pack of Marlboro Reds on the way.

Amusingly, Bender-boy gets monthly or bi-monthly messages from West Texas oil fields about work opportunities. Best would be he work a rig, lose a few limbs and, much later, after the fourth accident, live in a vegetative state for the rest of his existence - an existence of a mere seven further epochs.

It occurs to me that I only have a superficial overview of the myriad stories Bender-boy has told me about his working life, though from what I know, him toiling at the zenith of a rig amid the dizzy heights in the baking petrol suffused heat isn’t all that far-fetched. After all, he did work at the zeniths of many smokestacks testing the toxicity of their emissions whilst inhaling the fumes and managing not to tumble to his death. He worked at a nicotine “factory” in North Carolina where he absorbed the drug from the atmosphere whilst adding to its potency by smoking.

Did I mention that we are going to buy a box of Marlboro Reds on the way to the grave?