# sunday seven twelve sbt on or around the 15th another lie in a lumpy morning bed of fading lukewarm curried prawn farts idle daydreams of fecund autumn afternoon forests still light outside breathing shallow listening to researchers existentially balancing on frayed high tension bioelectric cables everything crackles and zaps in the mild insistent misty drizzle thinking today's the day where anything could happen but quote only if we were rich fellow researcher henry swanson still has this rich daydream bs for only then would they feel able to spring out of bed like a spawning salmon jump in that power shower scrub their confident hair with paul mitchel lemon and sage thickening shampoo wash down their buff tanned rack safe in synthetic knowledge they could go anywhere do anything other that is than vaguely hoping that by loudly announcing one's hollow taste and shallow opinions concerning one's loyalty to earth destroying hypercorporate brands one is merely announcing one's loneliness to other consumers who unthink like they do and are therefore somehow less capitalistic for at the end of this yearning yawning day they could be andor seem 1000 miles away soon heavily engaged in all encompassing biocosmic scale action adventure running around in light high tech tunnels with security klaxons blaring bow wow wow also known as love on the run in a time of danger minutes left to clack into and past this heavily armored lab door's inset pseudocode keypad in a vast secret underground research base before blue grey ash faced undead arrive to play with neat little high end gadgets and overreaching deeper existential mode tones to accompany this fragmentary hole sudden burst transmission of megacity energy unknown interzonal pleasures which sidetrack altogether the main issue still not being fully aware of what it all might mean yet hoo boy what a mess of illusion big scientists are in now // [[republic of bob contents | imaginary pastime republic of bob]]