agentblack

I have a habit of dropping in on G when I get back from work. He'll stare at me, confused and disorientated, as I jabber and spit, preaching twisted word science, my head twitching and jerking on a spastic rubber neck, sweating and shivering whilst I spread the sickness that leaks from my frontal lobes, right side hemisphere throwing a tantrum.

He'll nod and smile, eyeing up escape routes, assuming a low balanced stance, that will allow him to over power and batter me into submission if he has to get physical. Evenutally, he'll throw some CD's out the door to distract me, knowing that my magpie reflexes are attracted by the shiny, glittery surfaces and bright colours.

Yelping like a chimp, I'll scamper after them. "Have a listen, tell me what you think." he'll call after me, before making good his escape, generally by swinging himself out of the window, tumbling with acrobatic grace to the ground below, before sprinting away like a trained athlete.

I can never catch him. I've tried, but he's too fast, and the head start proves too much for me.

Recently, the CD was Text. My opinion wavers between thinking it's an amusing slice of Prog Rockery, or Denouncing it as the work of mind more sinister and damaged than my own.

I like it.