I don’t want any relationships, I don’t want to be with anyone; just drink and watch the world go by? Is this then all my life will be?

I don’t want any relationships, I don’t want to be with anyone; just drink and watch the world go by? Is this then all my life will be? Tonight I plan an epic walk across Brussels, from my hotel all the way to the Justice Palace, and beyond, down to Louise then Rue de Livourne. Stopping off along the way in Club L’Intime and Reves Table Dance. Perhaps. I doubt I will go all that way. Not with this complete lack of enthusiasm which has bedevilled this trip. The skies still bright blue but at street level dusk starting to fall; lamps outside the Hotel Plaza glowing brightly. 845pm. I just want a little nest, where I can be alone with my ferns, and my classical music, and my writing. Perhaps my lethargy & torpor on this trip is sub-consciously because I feel it is nearing the time when I find that little nest for myself and save my money for that.

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Some big breasts in a tight sweater. That is all I need. Don’t know why more porn cinemas don’t just show porn like this

Some big breasts in a tight sweater. That is all I need. Don’t know why more porn cinemas don’t just show porn like this. I wish I owned my own porn cinema. It would be the best porn cinema in the world. There would be ferns, & music playing everywhere, some places all violin music, some places all old psycho funk 1970s music, old blues 1920s music. In another room a stage with fully nude striptease. My dreams in life are all of a pornographic Priapic nature. That is my pilot light. That is the Nile deep underground inside me. My hinterland is all my erotic memories.

When I behave shamefully like Thursday night I wake up feeling ruined and not wanting to open my eyes

When I behave shamefully like Thursday night, I wake up feeling ruined, and not wanting to open my eyes, but when I do I want to do great work, intellectual things, I want to go back to classical music and ferns and my books, and I have the most amazing 48 hours or so of inspired creative work, all to run away from the shame of the drunkenness and hedonism of the night before. So doing shameful things has always been good for me; getting that mucky stuff out of your system; and it also gives me deliciously naughty dreams as well.

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The pilot is saying something in German; probably something of a sexual nature

The pilot is saying something in German; probably something of a sexual nature. I caught a look at his face as I got on and it was a face of absolutely bestial sexuality; or maybe I just caught my reflection in the glass. An old joke, but it always makes me laugh. Fiona Foxon. Fabergé. The body dug up which had Fabergé teeth.
Austrian Boarding Pass.
The plane took off into quite Wagnerian skies; black night still, thick cloud, wind, rain, and what looked like lightning, but may have been the wingtip lights reflecting back from the clouds. 780 miles. 2:30 hours. I always seem to be cold, lifeless, frigid when I come to Vienna, unable to feel anything sexual, even though the very words “Viennese Eroticism” have always thrilled me so much in London. I have got to unlock the sexuality here, like releasing the fly from amber, bringing the woolly mammoth back to life from the ice. To finally “crack the Vienna nut”. I need to imbue myself with the spirit of Hans Makart, the way I do Franz von Stuck in Munich. Lose myself in sickly morbid eroticism. Ferns and fronds, violins, around a stage on which a girl dances while slowly removing all her clothes, before retreating into a separée to be mauled feverishly in joyless, pointless intercourse. To make myself ready for this debauchery I have to drink so much that I can then no longer feel anything when I do it.
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