# the hideousness of mundane everyday existence >the martians could land in the carpark and no one would care >~ del amitri nothing ever happens underwhelming paroxysms of hyper-quotidian mundanity; to consider 'life' (always in quotes) as actively inactively-monstrous in its flat lead-dull damp-cardboard tasting humdrum everydayness; blunt gross - almost utterly devoid of style grace or even much sense of any meaningful meaning the anonymous dust that collects behind radiators in cold old houses all over "endland dear old dead endland" trudging back in the unending drizzle with heavy shopping - bag handles digging into wet palms some unloved somebody watching daytime talk show television with dead eyes slowly nibbling on a stale arrowroot biscuit quiet men with soft middle-aged bellies and a slow pained look of angry flameless smouldering desperation - looking vainly for excuses to get ir noses broken in the bland faces of others - yet who never quite manage to the tragically violent sense of going (virtually) nowhere at the speed of 'life lite'(tm) the cold chemical stasis and heart wrenching solitude of the conversationless space that hangs around your hollow acedic noon-day skull dead plants in an ugly vase once belonging to your foolish mother; a small yet permanent hole in your sock; unspecified hip pain after sitting down too long to read bad novels about tepid middle class weasels in love // image here - pure cheddar: wings of love by steven pearson plastic stinking burn marks on the bottom of your iron; half listening to golden oldies on the new improved cheapness of all digital radio the indescribable sense that it's impossible to adequately describe the true unadorned awfulness of this astoundingly tedious and routine semi-existence: bombs fall babies cry the distant desert sky thunders with untold possibilities - and yet there's you; still walking alone with your designer alienation gladly lost in your solipsistic self pities - chewing on these sisyphean olive stones grinding the long remaining years under your dirty heels half-desperate to cry and patiently scream down surrounding abandoned mega-structures yet even these plastic crocodile tears or your b.s 'trademarked inner tension' never arrive and so on and on and it continues unabated; an appalling synthetic state of nondescript being the deadpan joke staring at you in the stained bathroom mirror at 3am again - its surface covered with frozen mineral deposits from the vile tap water you splash on your plain dim face fractured moments reduced to what they always were - just a loose bunch of unsorted to-do lists / half a page of scribbled lies washing up in the sink; the stink of old boiled ham; your life as a limp british rail sandwich in which the reason you watch those soul-crushingly awful hollywoodden movies is because the arbitrary idiots in them seem heavily involved in impossibly convoluted pseudo-dramas.. and therefore don't have to deal with the hideousness of mundane everyday existence sunday afternoon at home: 'wintering with your mother in guildford; a cat rain vim under the sink and both bars on' a muffled shout goes up from the unseen crowd: "anywhere but here - anything but the grey molasses-dragging half-lame listlessness of now" thinks (by miles gibson) >you think >it can't last >it should be over by midnight >or tomorrow lunchtime at the outside >but it goes on >and nobody stops >to handle the brake >it goes on >and very soon you understand >that >perhaps it will last after all >pretty soon you get to saying to yourself >"i must do something about this" >so you settle down with a good book >under the arc lamps of reality >you dissect the words >and keep them in vinegar >you take a little love >and you bruise it in your palm >you take a little hope >and boil it in your fear >you laugh a little >cry a little >start to blow your nose >and you think >perhaps a storm would turn off the sun >perhaps we'll all learn to work out the facts >so you put out the flags >as you turn out the lights >and much later >about a lifetime later >one dark night >in the cold of your bed >you sit up with a start >w/ a voice in your head >and you say to yourself >"i must do something about this" queue video of mozzer puts ir hand (w/ oddly elongated fingers) over a pained face - as if to say "this tired half-life this series of unremarkable images.. it's all just too hideous to bare" // republic of bob