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Diary 2022 (part 1)

Updated: 22 hours ago

December 20th 2021

I've been away from my house, and thus from my computer for quite some while. I'll talk about it some other time. For once, it wasn't mental health related. I won't mention it. I can't see the point anymore.

January 26th 2022

I'm reviewing a sensible segment of the now-finished essay, which I began writing before my collapse. It's probably soundly controversial. I could see how 'normie' readers may construe it as being dark slapstick, or even obnoxious satire, all irreverence and no substance, but I have to assure them that I was being serious. It's been re-phrased in a few places, and clarified, and now has less of a 'conversational', or vulgar, tone. Conversational-style asides blight all my formal writings at first draft usually. Lots of cynical wordplays and little ironic deadpan asides. It's totally an affectation, as if me adding 'humour' would help to carry people through the desperation of the total bleakness, and keep their attention. Some slight guard. I prefer myself sometimes to find it funny. It's not. No 'dark' sense of humour is ever there for healthy reasons.

I have the research papers and piles of documents to add references and footnotes to it now, but I can't quite find the will. Given human nature, even if enough people were to try it out by reading it for themselves quietly, I fear the time for such decisions on their part has passed, and it is too late to stem the floodwaters, or rattle those manning the sluices. Their time is their own. Maybe there will be one more opportunity at a mid-future time so that I can address one more thing. If not, then it just has to be acknowledged as too late. Not too late for others. But too late for me. My liberty is on borrowed time. 25 years so easily taken.

"As final remark, I personally think a good step after all this would be for Whites to, by consensus, adopt Veganism. That could take a certain explaining. It’s a shame one still must. Consider the 2018 documentary film “Dominion”, just as a start. Enough is enough. I made the argument to my friend that I think there are indeed ‘useless eaters’ on this planet. I could almost sympathize with the 'powers that be' on account of this. However, they control the corporatized slaughter industry, having bought out the independents. They also mask the true horror of this operation behind thick propaganda, and slick marketing, as well as having desecrated the impartiality and open-minded rigour of the medical industry. I do not think, with substantial scientific evidence, that the flesh taken from living creatures following their systemic culling is necessary for a healthy diet (much as it is indeed nutritious for our bodies and minds). Neither is their milk, or their unfertilized eggs. Even if it was, we may have to use our intelligence to find a way around that problem on moral grounds. We have the wrong focus still.

Neolithic Indo-European peoples were known for their innovative nature. Animal husbandry served its purpose to us. Those who could develop their bodily consciousness with the flesh of other creatures have long done so. We have had enough of it though, and it serves the rest no good. Sometimes the hardest innovations are knowing when to let go. A process serves a purpose, aligned with nature, or it is without any foundational axiomatic logic, even beyond the boundaries of perception, and deep in the most ancient recesses of our racial memory.

We could not have known then. We were not yet roused to psychogenic awareness. We can indeed know now. We cannot continue this practice any longer. The lesson has been learned. We are cruel, and we have tortured them. We continue to torture them. No matter how kind we think we are being, we are killing them, and chopping their bodies into pieces, and consuming them, or exploiting their existence, all of them, defined as resource units so we can drain and siphon off their biological substances for our needs, from birth until death, and we are holding onto their herds and flocks for no other purpose, in dark steel factories of blood and death, in paddocks and enclosures, and on the fields. How else can this be said? We are torturers manning their gulag. We have seen only ourselves, the entire time. Every new argument from the racial right and from an anti-degeneracy genetics position hinges on the dietary benefits of meat and dairy consumption. At no point do we really ever stop to consider the compassion (or, in actuality, severe cruelty and dispassion) in any framework in a way that does not place primary importance on our diet regardless, using it as an 'unavoidable reality' to excuse any behaviour, even knowing that for that diet we are carrying out terrible brutality, day in day out. Dietary arguments, cold, rationalizing, dissonant, totally detached from the reality of the acts being perpetrated. Yes, the cooked corpses of the barbarically-slaughtered animals are very good for us. So what? Can we really not see what the error is in our thinking? There is no euphemism here, and no exaggeration for effect, or the concept of torture has lost all of its meaning. If we claim we are human at all, and not subhuman, or golems without minds, so possessed by anti-empathy that our compassion has run cold, we should accept this, or our meaning too is lost altogether, and no further meanings can be understood. No matter what they suffer, we cannot break away for valuing them for their use to us more than we value them for their existence at all independently of our needs. That abyssal stubbornness, heels dug in and gritted teeth, unable to budge on this issue, wilfully misunderstanding the argument for compassion at times and returning to the entitled matter-of-fact autism and cold, mechanical fury that seems a lingering remnant of Christian moralizing and anthropocentrism, Biblical in tone, does not reflect well on how we may potentially treat each other also within our own race, if we are convinced the benefits are substantial enough, and the sort of rationalizations, cognitive biases, and self-deceptions we could maintain to justify our interpersonal acts, and what level of force we would be prepared to apply to forge consensus on our behaviour, or to ridicule or punish those who did not facilitate us, or adopt our behaviour, or merely refuse to vocally agree with us behaving in this fashion, even as we claim that we are still noble-spirited Europeans."

I'd been in the car with Abby. She was driving me down to Clacton to sign my bail-sheet, as I am obliged to do 4 times a week. It's about a half hour each way. She mentioned to me that Sterling and Liberty have been enrolled, with her consent, into a documentary programme filmed by the Police, titled 'Making Our Streets Safer'. The crew were looking for 12-18 year old to participate. They get paid 80-100 pounds a session. I think this swayed Abby.

I quietly butted in at this stage and remarked that unfortunately, the production is probably going to be dripping with postmodern and progressive clichés on racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, and the the usual Leftist talking points, but probably won't delve into disproportionate Black street violence, Muslim terror-rape gangs, totalitarian hate speech laws, Drag Queen story hour perverts, and the industrial dissolution of White nuclear families.

I think this triggered Abby. She began to shout at me. "Don't you realise that gays and trans are persecuted?! They're victims. They don't need you bashing them!" The only part of my long utterance that registered, it seems, was the "Drag Queen story hour perverts".

"I'm not bashing them, Abby. It's not a matter of your feelings or my feelings - the gathering data sets are there. Are they infallible in your eyes; beyond wrongdoing altogether; all victims? All just victims? Victims because they are not given free reign regardless of action or consequence? Nothing but victims, no matter what they do? Or are some, in fact, perpetrators also, co-currently? Why are they not owning this in their new 'communities', and not acknowledging it, reflecting on it at all, taking responsibility for it, and pointing out those of their own that are perverts and child-molesters, and why are we not doing likewise, instead drawing attention away from the vital need to protect and stimulate the growth and well-being of traditional heterosexual nuclear families and the safety of children within them? Some homosexuals are persecuted, true, but it's not systemic. The abuse they are held destroyed by has already long occurred. They are safe in this system as adults, even if they are not safe in themselves. There are so many measures in place over that. There's no wide scale persecution. These days they practically run the show in certain matters. What you, and they, are calling 'persecution' is, in reality, merely the act of someone else presenting informed disagreement with their words, or objecting to their behaviour. When Facebook; Apple; Nike, Trafalgar Square, The White House, and so on, are flying huge LGBT pride flags, and where severe Hate Speech laws are in place to arrest you and imprison you for literally pointing this sort of thing out, when you have intended no hostility and applied no physical force, and where education is shaped around pandering to their sensitivities... no, no, I don't think they are, on the whole, persecuted, no. Reeling from ancient hurt, yes, but not persecuted."

"More of your bollocks shitty opinions, stuffing them down my throat! Straight people do that too!"

She must have stopped herself listening after the initial "Drag Queens" line. My entire response totally ignored, falling on deaf ears, and bouncing straight off her. I have no idea what it feels like in her head perceptively. Tight, maybe. Only one space available. I imagine that one single expression as a mantra, blazing, throbbing, pushing all else aside, filling the space. A huge, solitary point too dangerous not to scream back at, the screams erupting out of her mouth, landing on me. Not me, really, probably, just out at all, relief for her, her alternative only that terrible danger, self-imposed. No choice. One withdrawal alone, or terror. She cannot see me in these conditions. She rarely sees me at all.

When I say I pity her, I do. When I say I understand her, I hope I am believed. I understand her far better than she understands me at least. Generally, I get this with people quite regularly. Either they see it as arrogance, or a challenge, and huff and puff, and resist, and forget it each new time they talk to me, or they accept it. I have never known how this can be healed. I do not give her every chance ever. At the same time, I stay with her, loyal, loving her. She is not these mad, fierce, fiery actions. There is not an excuse here, it's an observation, based on long thought and time and checking of other materials for reference. At some point though, to be not her - at all, distinct in any fashion, to be alive, I do come into conflict. Though she is distinct herself, one must stop these actions at some line. As I say, I do not, and will not, give her ever chance ever. Too many like her... and the world would end, in blood and ashes. It is not my responsibility to shepherd the ignorant irresponsibility of others, in mute capitulated stoicism, and to permit them their everything, which is indeed without limits, much as I can be quite patient.

I pointed to a tree by the roadside. "If I say to you, that's a tree, and you look out, and acknowledge it, and don't like it being a tree, it's still a tree. It would be a tree regardless of me even acknowledging that it's a tree. It would be there if I was not there. That's the nature of the objective world outside. True, I am presenting opinions, but not entirely - not everything is an opinion. Some of my statements are facts, or opinions based on substantial hard evidence. Without facts, one cannot form a real opinion. Knowledge is not held by force of will, or speculative desire. A well-maintained guess is not enough. Internal convictions must have some external reference point. It's not even 'my' opinion, as if everything I say is pulled from a unique perspective of my own construction and maintenance, as opinions are shared by other people, although some are more common than others. It's certainly not 'my' facts.

To the best of my ability, and others' ability, and to the best human processing of statistical data, and massed historical record stretching back over thousands of years, and the combined wisdom of so many dedicated thinkers, to adhere to a scientific-grade set of facts. They can be reviewed. If we have erred, and made errors, they can be corrected. I make mistakes. I am not intelligent enough to do otherwise, or I am not focussed enough, usually one or the other. I realise this. I doubt, and check, and re-check, and can be persuaded with reasonable corrects, and can cope with having been wrong. It's a relief if anything, so then I can correct my sloppy thinking, and be closer to truth again. Yes, I make mistakes. I do not make every mistake that could be considered to have been made.

Heterosexual people can indeed be abusers also, yes. And I certainly point them out robustly when they are. Most of our society is in some way detrimental to the health of European children and I do not speak through a dogmatic moral puritanism, or a conservativism, to the point where I cannot see wood for the trees. 'Equality' is an ideological term though, and unable to influence reality, to 'intervene', as you so very much want it to. It does not exist in nature. It is imposed artificially. Whether of propositions and arguments in thought or speech, or of behaviours, or of races, there is a scale to measure by. It is already laid out for us. If we choose to ignore it, it is us who is responsible for that choice. By going against it, we are out of line with that natural measurement. Within nature, and yet in opposition to it. We are causing a contradiction, and a disharmony. By all logic, we are incorrect."

"Fuck you, and fuck you some more. Trying to stop me having my opinions by forcing yours down my throat! At least I can look forward to you getting 25 years in a lonely cell with your opinions to keep you warm, and getting raped in the arse by Mr. Big. I hate you, I hate you so much. You're a moron, and you've learned nothing. You're incompetent!"

"That's incredibly cruel of you Abby. Very vindictive. The Police haven't even charged me yet. A court has not found me guilty. In your eyes I see I'm already guilty. My arrest was not for voicing controversial opinions. Still, I'm guilty to you. I see that. Do you realise that, if I may pathologize, you're projecting something here. If anyone's shutting down someone else's opinion, it's you. Because you don't like the facts, you find it okay to censor me fully, to shut me up, and to emotionally abuse me. To throw me to the wolves. To rant and screech and bitch at me like a lunatic."

"Well you did this. You're in the wrong. It's your fault."

"No Abby, I'm not wrong. Not objectively. I'm pitched against the State, and the State say I'm wrong. The suspicion is on their part. It was their decision to do this."

"Yes, so you're wrong."

"No. That's separate and distinct. Truth and ethical behaviour existed before, and independent of the State. The State is a group of human individuals who have power. What if the State is wrong?"

"Then we obey their rules, right or wrong."

I had nothing left to say to this. We passed a little while in silence, then she commented...

"You used to be fun, and sexy. I want some fun in my life. I might go down to the gay club this evening and find a woman. I hate fucking bastard men. I want to be with a woman, or a transsexual. I've always wanted that. Transsexuals are beautiful. I'm already over the hill. I want to have some fun with a normal person. Not with you. I lost all that fun by having kids, unlike you. You were lucky. I've achieved absolutely fuck all."

"Fun is fleeting. There are others ways to have it. At least you could have children. That's an achievement. I'm infertile. I look back on what I thought was fun at the time, when I was a haunted alcoholic teenager, in to gothic music and degenerate sex, and what, in boorish nihilism, I thought was acceptable, and what I engaged in, and I grimace in shame and distaste. Also, nothing is normal in the West these days, not by historical objectivity. Not since the French revolution, or even the end of the Second World War. At root, not since even longer before, back to the collapse of the Classical Roman civilization. European civilisation is in its dead age. You just don't notice because lying historians and full spectrum dominance media feeds you a constant barrage of false information, under terrible forceful pressure and fear-inducing tactics, and distracts you, and keeps us all in a false consensus trance. Not that people aren't stupid anyway, outside of that constant conditioning. There have always been stupid people, with slave-quality mentalities. There is no 'normal'. There is a mass of ordinary people, and, I can assure you, they are the morons. More people are cruel and unintelligent than compassionate, spirited and informed. They are no more than ignorant slaves. If 'normal' had any validity as in use, surely it would mean traditional, as in, the values and ways of thinking that served classical European civilization at its height, and not just what the majority of a dead age broken civilization think. If that is your normality, perhaps you are simply impressed by their sheer numbers alone, and cowed by them."

"Maybe I just want to be a degenerate. That's the term you always use."

"More and more so each year that passes Abby, yes. I'd say you were growing more vociferously Leftist, in an active political sense. Before, I would not have considered you to have the mind of an activist, much as you are naturally liberal from even before the Leftist talking points seem to have possessed you. "

"You've done that to me. You. With your bullshit opinions."

"Maybe I have. Perhaps it would have been better not to know. In which case I'm sorry. I'm sorry in general. It's not good on my mind either. You start to talk about it, and I always, sadly, must respond. Or I talk about it, and am immediately drawn into an argument. I wish it was not all around us, so neither were inspired by it, and instead we could talk on art, or poetry, or literature, or music, or lovely things, or the natural world. I wish you weren't like this. I wish you didn't feel like this."


February 7th 2022

My left bookshelf fell over on my back earlier, and the books went everywhere. I just can't be bothered to pick it up yet as I'm a little sore. Aside from that, the room is still very small and packed. I am afraid Abby will worry about the sudden mess, and come in and start getting flustered.

This despite a lot of possessions, a very large amount of stuff... a health visitor many years ago once mused to her in conversation that she might have 'OCD', but the matter was never pursued. As usual, I don't expect it could have been. My bitterness is usually solely to do with them putting in so much energy noticing and addressing me whilst not subjecting her to the same scrutiny, and the same severe treatments. It remains only a terrible bitterness at the incomprehensible one-sided injustice. Rationally, I know they would have killed her mind altogether, had they noticed, and swooped in. Much as it's deeply frustrating, at least they have not had the chance to destroy her with punitive treatment long-term the way the they have destroyed me. 'OCD' is psychiatric neologism, an unhelpful framework to think under, an insult and a stigmatising label, as all diagnosed 'disorders' are, enabling a very harsh pseudoscientific treatment response.

Mess and "germs" terrify her. Very afraid of disease. It's awkward, given her desire to cram in so much - I really do mean there's a lot in here. I am unable to stop her. The regular term the State healthcare-check officials use is 'hoarding'. They apply it like a medical diagnosis, but without kindness, merely in distaste. She has never in her life been asked to meet with a psychiatrist, or a mental professional. She has no case history recorded with them. They just remark flippantly on her at times, as an aside if they are pre-occupied with me in general, and as an infuriating, negative behaviour on her part, to be pointed out disdainfully in moral outrage, and scolded for. I'm sure it humiliates her when they say that, and pisses her off even more.

I have been informed many times by her that getting rid of her objects, even some seemingly unimportant or insignificant things, just junk to me at times, smaller figurines and collector toys, and any random thing that takes her fancy, and beyond that just what would be considered plastic tat sometimes, makes her "grieve". I've seen it happen. She's literally at the level one would reach if a family pet had died. I don't find the dolls and mannequins and 'kooky' objects upsetting. She can own what she likes in that regard. I'm just worried that there's not much space, and no easy way to regain space, and that purchasing priorities have been forgotten or misinterpreted. A substantial supply of spare blankets and sheets, and quite a lot of spare clothing and shoes. I suppose I've always found it a lot easier to part with my possessions, if I realise they are no longer necessary, or that they were a poor choice, or, equally, for reasons of space. It's never easy, if it's something you really like, but I understand the occasional necessity, and just get on with it.

It galls me when new mental health care workers visiting to 'check-in' with me automatically assume the stuff is mine, and also that I chose the décor and the room layouts, the "Feng Shui" as Abby would say. This assumption has occurred more than once. It's not uncommon actually. Another confirmation bias of "we know he's mad/weird/eccentric/ill so this must also be his doing". They always say "oh..." and are surprised when I correct them. No further comment is passed.

I don't have many possessions myself. A small rack of clothes; lots of books - which are accessed daily and not there for display purposes; a small shelf of art materials for my paintings; a couple of musical instruments, primarily a violin; a computer; a CD player; some Romantic composers I like on CD. It all fits into the corner of the bedroom, with the clothes on the opposite wall alcove, taking up less than half the room. The rest of the house is all her, bar the long-term food I've packed up in Mylar and stored in trunks in the covered alcove out the back, out of the way, to the left of the steps up to the garden, and the tool collection, solar generator, and survival aids in one of the outdoor sheds, and some packed cans of long-life water in a section of the other. Fruit trees and vegetable bushes on each side in between. Some pots of potatoes. Two bowls of radishes. Some strawberry plants in low trays. A few more crops in the same contained space.

I'm lucky I can fit any of my own stuff at all into the house. The spaces were initially filled by her very quickly. It's very hard for me when I try to negotiate over adding something I'd like myself instead. She has no understanding of a hierarchy in object values, based on beauty, usefulness, civilizational worthiness (not just price-tag or "well, it's valuable to me"), and gets offended when I try to put this to her. The unending problem of dealing with someone who does not understand the meaning of objectivity, or, if they do have an inkling of understanding, simply rejects it, let alone what is, and what is not, an opinion. I get the idea though that in Abby's case she is genuinely unable to think in any way that is not purely subjective, radiating egalitarianism, a natural communist. There is nothing I say to her that is not immediately put up for debate. I don't think I would mind her purchasing high quality European cultural materials and good necessities, even in it took up a little more space (and within reason), but without any discrimination over inherent quality or worth, it just feels so very crass at times.

I took a look at some photographs of European architecture for the World Fair at the close of the 19th Century. I think they're stunning. It makes me weep as I gather they're not in fashion anymore, just ugly concrete and steel and big grey mass-housing Lego blocks and State offices, and 'arty' conceptual designs with odd dissonant angles jutting out in snarling, feral disharmony, and unbalanced mounds, asymmetrical, chaotic, swirling and stabbing about undecided. No adherence to Beauty, or life. No calm or reasonableness. No liveable practicality also. They agitate and depress. An insult to us, and a sucking madness. As to the magnificent forms in my images, I am of the mind to wonder if their like will ever be seen again in our 'civilisation'. Probably not. I don't know if anyone has the skill left, even if we were allowed the opportunity. Two world wars can't have done them any good either. The expert, artisan techniques, and the principles, are still logged down in older books. Who is prepared to read those though, and to study the profession in this original, sensible manner? A handful, at very most, impotent against this sprawl. They must bide their time. Perhaps they will be dead before it can be addressed by them. It must be addressed though, as with everything else, eventually, even if not within current lifetimes. I'm sure it will be by someone. Those who can survive will. I'd expect that most won't. The alternative is to take Kali Yuga in full literality. I don't think I'll see that though. I hope I can play some small part regardless, back in the dim wastes of now. I never understand a nostalgia for pre-war British working class accommodation, such as old photographs of London factory streets and tight, impoverished East End dwellings. Beyond the nostalgia, what I feel we really miss is the community of cohesion. The buildings themselves at that point are not postmodernist, but they are still squat and grimy and ugly. It's like going around the ruins of Rome and lamenting over the loss of the late-Republic slave quarters as much as the dilapidation of the Temple of Romulus. Our civilisation was gone a long time before the pre-war 20th Century, or the 19th Century. It's lucky we had any skill left by then even. Strangely to some, I am not inspired by the towering gothic architecture of European cathedrals, no matter how huge and ornate, and consider them an oppressive threat, and a vast lingering symbol of the corrosive alien values that brought us down.

February 8th 2022

Abby was informed by Andy that they have software to re-create my screen on their machines, and so observe and log everything I type or open, and are keeping open tabs. I don't doubt that inclination. It's impossible to know. It's always that added pressure though. Oh well. I write anyway. Under those circumstances one can be either totally silent, or they take their chances. I maintain that I am innocent.

February 16th 2022

I sent my Dad my book's cover art for his review. I also thought he might like to read my contextual writeup, based on some recent letters. Oh dear, that was not a great decision. He is usually very fond of my visual art, particularly the digital graphic art, and pushes me in that direction (although he is not a fan of any of my music, or indeed my many poetry books, let alone my articles, and is not really convinced that I should focus on physical canvas painting as he likes to remind me that there is no money in it. "With respect, you're not Picasso", he told me the other day).

It's worth noting that, in open conversation, Dad self-identifies as a Liberal. Intense academic arguments between him and me rage in this family now and again. On the plus side, at least he doesn't fly into quite the same rage-level that Abby does, and begin to screech and snarl at me, and to lash out. The same type of language is employed, and the same underlying attitude, but he keeps his tone level, and rarely raises his voice. He always appears quite in control, although you know he is extremely displeased.

Yesterday I'd mentioned transgendered activism individuals in relation to child abuse, and her violent scratching of my hand with her nails drew blood. She had to take her hand off the wheel in the process, and we almost skidded into a truck. She cried afterwards, and sulked, and spent 85 pounds on a teddy bear to cheer up. My hand bled, slowly, for about 5 minutes. I'm well aware that there are not very many transsexuals overall in our population. It's not a primary threat, in that there are far more pressing concerns. That does not mean that I do not find the promotion and protection of children's strip shows masked as reading events, and presented by what appear to be homosexual paedophiles in bizarre sexual outfits, as a disturbing new trend. So, much as there are not actually that many transexuals, I would prefer to keep it that way. I would still not want them doing damage regardless. Child abuse is endemic in European society, and pursued by all demographics, and I am not a fan of Christian-minded moral outrage campaigns. It's not going to 'bring down society' any more than racial right conservatives brutalizing their children under psychiatric ignorance, hubris regarding European innocence in the abuse of children by their parents, and all the other moronic things we do to deflect responsibility and self-sabotage the well-being of our people, Still, that does not mean that a drive to normalize transsexualism and extend its demographic domain is not distressing and disturbing to observe.

February 22nd 2022

I'm still dreading the 28th, however I've got quite a lot done in the background, so at least I have not wasted what may be my last days of freedom before what will be, if it occurs, the effective ending of my world forever.

February 24th 2022

My bail has been extended by 3 months today. They have not found anything malicious so far. Thus, I suppose, being who they are, they'd like to press harder (until they do?). I know these mentalities.

I have had a bad day. Abby argued with Andy. He had phoned her to find out what was going on. He said to her that he had been counting down the days until I was found guilty, and was disappointed that I am not now in jail. He told her to kick me out of the house (of which I am a signed tenant under our landlord), and then he might let her look after her children, provided she removes her possessions and alters the house to suit a style he would find more normal. He has currently seized the children and taken them around to his house.

Abby tried to lead them out, away from him, as they were crying, but he threatened her that he would have her arrested by his colleagues for a breach of the peace. He says if we move away, he will call social services, and have them investigate me. He suggested that, while he is at work, Abby goes round to his house to look after the children and tidy up. He said her dressed vintage mannequins are harmful to the children's mental health, although stated that his new partner's identical hobby collections are not, as she has a background in fashion design. He said I am a very dangerous man, and a terrorist, and that my opinions will destroy the children. Abby reminded him that one is innocent until found guilty. He said, regardless of whether a judge found me not guilty, I would still be guilty, or otherwise the team would not have burst down our front door in the first place. Generally, what I think he means by "dangerous" is not that I am a direct threat to the health and well-being of the children. What he is actually using this word to encapsulate is that he is afraid that if they bond with me too much in a shared environment, they will start to accept and promote my worldview, at the expense of his own. The "dangerousness" is solely an ideological danger, and he is terrified that they will not grow up as liberals, thus slipping outside his control. Much as I have points of harrowing mental breakdown, one gets the idea that he manipulates this knowledge as a godsend legally and plays up his concern over it as a cover for his real worries, which are nothing to do with my mental health. I don't expect he would ever admit this. I find this manipulation of poor health observations for the purposes of, at candid best, destroying a 'political opponent' he disapproves of on account of a competing ideology, and shattering a family in the process - completely unable to wonder what the children themselves would or could think outside of what he wants them to think and what life-course he evidently has planned for them long in advance - extremely disingenuous.

On the subject of Police intervention, I thought of their trademark heavy-handedness, and of their conditioning, and paranoia, and ideological state brainwashing, and general underlying dispassion, and notorious arrogance, and of their profession's poor reputation among the British people (and with damn good reason). He told Abby she was upsetting all their children. She reminded him of the time he punched her hard in the face, leaving her with a black eye, concussion, and facial damage, then lied to his fellow professionals in uniform and had her arrested, during which he had her name removed from their tenancy register, rendering her homeless, and denied her her children. He told her back then to do exactly what he wanted, so he could maintain his mortgage, and job, and pension, as she needed to "sort herself out and get a real job", rather than "just being a housewife".

He has recommended that she go round to his house to look after them for the next two weeks, whilst he consults legal advice. He suggests she do the same. I can't hear the children crying anymore, as they are all two blocks away at his, behind a locked door with a sign stuck on the front window-glass reminding passers by that CCTV is monitoring. I'm sure they are crying though. Abby told me straight "he is a manipulative, twisted liar". I had noted this. She was in panic, and crying, and did not want anyone else around. I moved over though, and embraced her anyway, trying to keep her soothed. Stood there in the emptiness of the house, I just hugged her. Somehow, we got on with it. Dad was in the house again.

I turned to my Dad. "He's a psychopath, Dad". "Yes son, he is".

Later, for some reason, my Dad said to Abby, whilst I was in the room "perhaps it's best if Benjamin does go, to sort out the issue between you and Andy."

I stood silently in that room. I could not feel anything. His utterance had done too much. I walked a few paces, just up to my Dad's chair. I said nothing. Then I spat in his face. No spittle came out, but there was an appropriate noise. It's not the sound one would expect. It's the pathetic sound of the world falling down. Just that. I went back upstairs in total silence, and then I returned a few minutes later, and I apologised. He said it was ok.

We must consult a family lawyer in the morning. I don't think any case, given all my life, is weighted in our favour. I hope he does not steal the children from my life though, and destroy me, and her, and my Dad, and my Mum, and the children themselves. If that happens first, and I am still put away into jail... I would indeed be a house-cat in a pen of tigers. Just not for very long.

March 14th 2022

Sterling is back living with us now. Andy chucked him out (despite making a big fuss initially as to me being a "terrorist" and "unsafe for the kids to be around"). It seems he had quietly masturbated on a pair of Andy's new girlfriend's underwear. We suspect it may have been to rebel against Andy's treatment of him (and me, and Abby), a trademark adolescent prank. Beyond that, always just the idea that teenage boys do get the novel sexual frustrations of puberty. No terrible alarm. Tasteless perhaps, but not a cause for moral terror.

Meanwhile, Andy is considering reporting him to the Police to "get him put on a sex offenders register". I can't see that working out for him, even with them. It would scare me if they did act on that, and considered it reasonable. I think, in general, it's fair to say that Andy is a cunt. He hasn't even told Sterling (15 years old) that he has to move out. He just phoned Abby and asked her to pick him up after school and stated that his stuff will be brought around later. At least we have him safe now. We are still holding out for the rest, eventually.

I need to go now as Abby has mentioned a large spider on Sterling's bedroom wall, and has gone to fetch the hoover. While she is away I'll try to find a gentler option.

March 16th 2022

I was daydreaming there. I imagined strolling into the school, smiling, and approaching the teachers as they lectured the 12 year old children on how to masturbate, and showed them examples of dildoes, and handed out illustrated manuals on how to safely perform anal sex (as I saw for myself in the PSHE department of Liberty's school not so long ago), and whacking them with a hard-wood truncheon I had in my hand, then dragging them across their classrooms one by one and throwing them out of the window.

It's a daydream. Impractical. It's a shame I have to qualify that, but I know people, and I know that they love leaping to conclusions, and especially if they don't like you and want to get you into trouble, and, on account of that, they most especially love pointing out "calls to violence", in tell-tale moral outrage, which this most certainly is not. A daydream is a daydream. A mental play-acting stress remover.

I do get very annoyed at them though, for far deeper reasons than sex ed. A long-term struggle, aided mightily along by the fact that neither Andy nor Abby really gives much of a shit at all about anything they're taught, or exposed to in that setting.

March 17th 2022

Oh dear. First, we discover that Crystal, a Police officer herself, has indeed reported Sterling to her (and Andy's) fellow Police for "masturbating into two pairs of my knickers, and thus causing me mental abuse". Social services phoned us also, but decided to drop the case, seeming a little disinterested once they'd ascertained that I didn't put him up to it.

In the meantime, the school phoned up and reported two incidents. In the first, a student reported to a teacher that Sterling dropped his trousers in the middle of the English lesson, and began to masturbate. Next, a separate teacher reported to the head that a student had seen a video of Sterling masturbating "on social media". It was at this point I twigged... I couldn't think of any commercial social media platform that I was aware of that would allow a video of a boy - a 15 year old, no less - wanking away to actually stay up online for others to openly view, and I'm not under the impression that the high-school children venture beyond the usual mainstream upload platforms for their social media interactions. Also, I do not think Sterling is a compulsive chimp.

I'm wondering if his sister Liberty, who goes to the same school, and knows about the knickers situation, has told her schoolfriends, who go on to tell their boyfriends, who go on to concoct a school rumour to take the piss out of Sterling, and somehow it has got out of hand. Or not Liberty starting anything at all, and just her friends making it up from thin air, as a way to get at her too as much as Sterling. I know she gossips with them, even when it is unwise to do so. She's been bullied herself by a great many of them.

However, in the meantime, the school phoned the social services again, even before any video evidence to back up their pupil's allegation has emerged, who have re-opened the case, and forwarded more details on to the Police. It's a headache, to be honest. It's also a game of Chinese whispers, and a perfect example of malicious stepmothers, hysterical women and female decision making, puritan outrage, and self-righteous Statist hypochondria (and how much I hate pigs). Andy says nothing to protect Sterling, and fawns over protecting Crystal. I assume he has a vested interest in her knickers also.

Since the day Abby told him off for his adamant, arrogant, head-shaking denial, in front of the listening girls, maintaining his lie brazenly right in front of their faces, confronted with the truth that he has been well aware the entire time that he is not Sterling's biological father, having duped officials by lying on Sterling's birth certificate, he has gone cold towards Sterling. Now the girls have heard Abby say this to him openly, for the first time (though they were aware already in this household), it seems to have shamed him into a rage. Before he was possessive. Now he has no time for him whatsoever.

Abby has popped out to collect Sterling from school. The teachers have confiscated the phones of every student in class. I assume that is because they're working on the strange hypothesis that this will stop the 'video' being shared somehow. One would think that it would merely be accessed by them after class, and shared about then, if there was indeed a video file logged on the internet somewhere. We have also been ordered to confiscate Sterling's phone and go through it. Honestly, I do not think that we are going to find anything. There's never been anything before. We trust him. Finding even an external pornographic video on a 15 year old's private phone would not be an unexpected concern to me.

Our values are bent completely out of shape under this fierce puritan moralizing. However, again, if a video of him even was found, it's worth pointing out that he wouldn't have filmed himself on a handheld smartphone and still managed to get his whole recognisable face and body in shot and simultaneously whack away with any anatomic ease, if one considers the angles necessary. Someone else filming it, fair enough. It seems unlikely otherwise. I'm more inclined to stick to the hypothesis that it's an unsubstantiated rumour. Children are immature, and like to taunt each other in groups at school, and these adults are idiots.

March 18th 2022

Thankfully, Andy had a word today with his boss and got the Police to dismiss the initial case against Sterling, having talked Crystal out of pressing charges. He seems to have finally got over the matter, though I expect there is lasting resentment. We still have to wait on the school for any further decisions or revelations on their own case.

There's a new store on the high street called Meraki. It markets itself as a Vegan Café and Crystal Shop. I initially thought it might be for amateur geologists and such so they could collect their ornamental gemstones, but no. Women everywhere in there - 3 middle-aged White ladies in Hindu temple robes conversing over a small glass ball, a student-looking girl in loose silk pyjamas, like something out of Aladdin, typing into a laptop, and the serving woman, tall, and thin, and blonde haired, yet like all the female characters from Friends rolled into one. Hindu elephant tassels mixed with Buddhist prayer flags mixed with wooden pentagrams and Kabballah glyphs and Wiccan moons, and the drifting scent of patchouli incense. Lots and lots of crystals, from wands, to pendulums, to solid rods and blocks. All neatly labelled. Things like "boosts love and light" and "doubles clarity and vision" and "protection for channelling". It was like a rule book for Dungeons & Dragons.

Abby turned to me "I knew it about this shop! There's a certain energy, isn't there? Do you feel it?".

I replied "I think I have to wait outside, the vacant bullshit in here is overpowering me."

Abby frowned, and I left the shop. A little while later she came out carrying a paper package. I asked her what she'd bought. She showed me a small wooden altar stand, and an obsidian arrow head to mount in the centre. Abby was excited "the woman in the shop told me this was a perfect choice on my part. She said nothing could better express the 'fuck off, I'm protected' vibe. Apparently the arrow head dispels negative energy and the obsidian vibrates to soak up astral attacks. Obsidian has such powerful properties."

I responded "she sounds like a 17 year old hippie-goth airhead. You do realise how ridiculous this is, don't you?"

Abby growled, and began to shout, telling me that I had "no right to trash the beliefs of the ancients!"

I paused for a second. I had to query this "how ancient are we talking here? Who exactly do we mean? Europeans, surely? I thought the Wicca movement was invented by a man in Scotland some time in the twentieth century based on 19th Century spiritism and all the sort of thing that Rene Guenon and Julius Evola and Savitri Devi complain about. You do realise ancient Paganism i.e. anything not Christian historically, pre-Christian in fact, Greco-Roman tradition in actuality, or indeed Indo-Aryan Dharma, either understanding remaining firmly 'right-wing' and in line with Nature - with race, and primarily with the preservation of noble values and elite wisdom, is in no way related to this cultic New Age fantasy, and that 'Pagan', in its historical usage, is a derogatory insult akin to 'heretic', which only really came into play with any official - and persecutory - force at the tragic falling of Rome into the rule of Christian emperors and the transition to the Byzantine theocracy, and the long, cruel, retarded barbarity and ignorance of the Dark Ages, and that the rest is just a syncretic mish-mash of anti-White liberal mindlessness? I can't imagine these feckless cultic bohemians have any interest in traditional Hinduism - which I concede is a noble, valid, and far-reaching system if studied genuinely - beyond the fashion, the novelty, and the hatred of their own traditional society and race. I can't help but notice that despite close proximity, and indeed many more items of a similar kind back home, your negative energy is not really being dispelled."

Abby is now not talking to me.

She also bought a toy dog, and a small doll. She tells me insistently that they have spirits tied to them, one an 8 year old greyhound called Duke, and one a 12 year old witch from the 18th Century who was "summoned through the portal by a powerful spiritualist medium and bound to this doll". Abby bought a small collar, and a squeaky toy for the former, and a pendulum so she can "chat" to the latter. I asked her how that worked. It seems she lays out a letter-board below and the spirit moves the pendulum dangling from her hand over the correct letters, to spell out each message. I nodded. "If the toy squeaks by itself Ben, will you believe me then?"

I slowly nodded again, silently. "You'll have to be careful though, apparently he likes leaping into bed on people!"

I nodded. Abby mentioned that she'd heard a bark the previous night that woke her up. I hadn't heard anything, lying asleep. It seems he was "making his presence known from the spirit world, and getting ready to enter our realm". I was told I should "be more perceptive to ethereal powers".

I started to wonder if Ozzie was ok, and if he was having any night-time difficulties. I made a note to check in with him, and remain alert. I wish I was stronger on a daily basis, and not so worn down. I had used to spend hours and hours alone with him. It's sad that his back legs are giving up, and causing him a lot of pain. I sense he is embarrassed also, and disappointed in himself. It's very painful for him to move about, and he often falls, and cannot get himself up without assistance. I go and help him up, lifting him back onto his feet, and stroking his head and shoulders gently for a few minutes each time, telling him by name how lovely he is in soft, quiet words. It's desperately sad. I know he is sad himself, a deep resonant melancholy, deeper than mine. There is so much knowing beauty in his intelligent soulful eyes. The deepest understanding, and the gentlest love. He knows I'm sad, and he knows I'm worried. I try my hardest to be strong for him though. It shames me that I so weak and that I find I cannot attend to him constantly for every hour of the day, in unbroken company. I used to like it when he bounded up the stairs to leap up and sleep cuddled on the bed on top of me. I worry that he's lonely at night.

I asked Abby why she had suddenly adopted this novel development of thought and interest. She replied that she was always into it, but had never had a chance with the children in the house, and she didn't want to "accidently over-power" her ritual and "expose them to a breach of malicious entities". I asked her what that generally would be. "Oh, dragons mainly". I was silent. Thoughts of an illustrated Tolkien bestiary I had owned as a child, written by David Day, and with many fascinating illustrations by Ian Miller and Alan Lee came into my mind. I felt a little sad then. How could one put this to her?

I think Abby misses the children, in ways she is not quite able to articulate, or process, on top of a lifelong panic-stricken anxiety and rigid rage, arising out of some repressed early life that she has never expressed to me. I've asked her about her childhood. She usually says good things, focusing on them, never offering any detail, but recalling happy memories. All I know as counterpoint to that is that she was bullied at school, and tormented by her older adopted sister (whom her father favoured), and was shy then, very upset by the name-calling, and did not at any point in her life have friends, or want to have them. She relies on herself alone, for every decision. It cannot be otherwise to her, it seems. She can never concede a point. Being wrong, no matter how small the matter, appears to be intolerable to her. Being 'in the wrong' is even harder for her to accept. Perhaps it would bring on guilt, and panic, and fear, a destruction of sorts in her mind. I didn't mean to be cruel. I do love her, hence why I remain, despite it all. I don't often spell it out to others. I am always torn, noticing these things, and trying to maintain compassion, wishing she could just make the slightest effort to take responsibility for anything. To just recognise it at all, without breaking apart under the terrified cupiditas that I sense it hiding just behind the immense psychic lock she has installed in place. Not responsibility for everything she feels. But for how it can, and will, and does jeopardise others. It is unaddressed, totally.

I am used to State pressure telling me everything is wrong in my words and actions. She has never had this long, bitterly resented training. No-one in authority has ever subjected her to the same criticism and intensity. She's seen them, always, come down on me alone. It only feeds her delusional confidence, at the end of the day. She can only see psychological poor-health in me. I wish she had learned earlier, somehow. I wish someone apart from me had just told her. An authority, a voice she would believe more easily. Still, despite this, I would not want her subjected to them now, those awful people, as I know well they would tear her to pieces mentally if they ever began. It would be a severe act of dispassion and total betrayal if I drove her at them, and I would not forgive myself in the aftermath. That act would be unforgivable.

There is a sweet, soft side, so rarely seen. A genuine quiet shyness, trying to find fun and humour, trying to act correctly, multitasking, in a flurry of new decisions considered all at once, so very uncertain and shy. I cherish those moments when she is soft and calmed. She is so very lovely then. Even her facial features are delicate, mouselike. She has covered herself in tattoos and piercings. The details remain soft though. Soft skin. A shyness always in her hopeful, timid eyes.

Beyond the defence and the defensiveness, she's wounded, and in complete uncertainty, so painful she flees immediately from it, in ferocious mindless decision-making, snapping into the same blueprint that carries her along as it always has. A tiny, sad, hurt girl buried so far back in a posturing adult woman, playing as a tyrant, desperate to be bold.

It's very painful, and very sad, what Andy's done. I'm not very good at humouring her. She gets upset. I just don't know what to say though. I remind myself that I should be patient. It's just tough though, and I think I put my foot in it a lot. I can consider quite a lot of topics quite open-mindedly. I (can) draw the line though. Dogmatic open-mindedness despite evidence to the contrary is just dogma itself. When demanded, it's just another chastising deceit to force someone to accept "I'm right ("could be right [too]") and you're wrong".

As I say, I don't mean to be cruel, and certainly, not all my own beliefs are 100% pure rationality, and at the same time I do make mistakes, and get things wrong sometimes, or misremember details, or go down the wrong path when working something out, or phrase it sloppily, as is extremely common (tiredness stimulates the use of simple words and lazy grammar. I've long given up on utilizing expansive, erudite, technically precise vocabulary or employing any literary finesse. Recalling these words is too taxing in itself, even before the crafting of superb sentences... it's too much for me), but in this case it just seems so... silly. So vapid. As if humans were all powerful, above Nature, or could make huge sweeping changes to the universe, and the physical world around them, and control other people to their favour by some pseudo-physical technique, and that everything has to be about the might and the brilliance of the self, and the ego, and that just thinking it strongly enough would somehow make this happen. I cannot see how there is not that discussed coping strategy somewhere. That yearning to hold control. Beyond that, there are basic physical interactions, and properties, and laws of nature, and scientific principles in reality that I would struggle to reconcile with these New Age explanations.

Every event or experience is always significant in some way, or unusual, or noticeable. Every anecdotal snippet or coincidence must always hold a profound meaning. If nothing's there, something is invented. It's all 'evidence' to them. A wild-eyed holy zeal propels it along.

I don't want to hurt her any more though, as I see her quietly suffering, so blithely, so unaware and naïve. It is either suffering, or ferocity. My empathy forces me to prefer the latter in her, for her sake. I'll just have to not talk about it. I've also promised her I'll read a couple of her new 'rituals and magic' books, as she's desperate to have me understand. It's so hard.

March 21st 2022

I walked down to the shop. There was a man in there in front of the till, talking to the two Indian shopkeepers excitedly. He looked at me dismissively as I walked in. On my part, I noticed that he seemed like a typical hipster. Dark beige jumper, canvas sneakers, a little beard, and thick black glasses. He was tanned, almost to a South European level. Chatting on and on, with his hands up gesticulating. I continued my shopping. When I got to the till myself he was still there.

"Yes, you should definitely invest in NFT's, they're the latest thing on the market. Companies pay you to collect them and hold them. Soon it'll be the only way to keep a diverse investment profile."

The shopkeepers smiled and nodded. Their English is not great.

I had wanted to leap in and tell him: "actually... no, Non-fungible tokens are a complete scam from start to finish, a Ponzi scheme created by the usual Big Tech elites at the behest of the usual Jewish internationalist 'businessmen' behind the scenes, and marketed cynically with paid-off celebrity endorsements, and designed to steal assets from gullible crypto-fans -as the great majority are - whilst simultaneously softening them up ready for the "you'll own nothing and you'll be happy" global ruin implemented daily by the likes of the UN, and every other elite strand of an anti-White system. Anything stored as crypto in the first place is weak to being stolen by Israeli hacking groups, or otherwise 'lost' in cyber-attacks perpetrated by governments themselves, and all it takes is for the government to require a digital ID to access the internet, and you're locked out of your digital funds unless you submit to totalitarian social credit surveillance, and the slave-society indignity of a monthly UBI stipend, expiring in short order if not spent immediately on permitted goods, preventing any savings plan. Or indeed you could just lose it all permanently if there's a global economic collapse 'net shutdown, or extended power outage. How exactly do you intend to gain from a currency unit not backed by gold? How on earth can one establish value? In a collapsing financial system, quantitative easing and subsequent severe inflation, the best, and safest, and most profitable safe haven alternative - and practical independent bartering item - to the feeble, valueless, designed-to-fail fiat currency of the Federal Reserve and world central banks, and Wall Street weasels, is to purchase hard assets, such as physical gold and silver, and store them on your property. Economic collapse is indeed coming. Anything that seems too good to be true always is."

Silently though, I waited for him to finish his lecture to the store owners. If I had said what I was thinking, I could see from him that it wouldn't resonate, and I could do without the smug, snotty, petulant argument. He finished by proffering the thought that they would probably benefit from what he was saying as they seemed like intelligent people, although he wouldn't imagine that many of their customers were very clued in. He glanced over at me again as he said that. He sighed. One more self-evident remark, delivered with his common sense. I gazed back, disinterested totally, waiting for him to just get out of the way, and watched him turn around and walk out. "Remember what I said, do the right thing!" he called to them as his head passed through the sliding doors.

What a moron, I thought. Oh well, there was no point in trying to help him out. He looked so happy. A laid-back smugness and wild optimism. At least, sooner or later, when he's starving, and broke, and hounded, and his family and friends are dropping away weekly from malnourishment and disease, and his children are herded up like cattle, and his neighbours are screaming as their bodies are violated, pressed into the last corner, and the third world hordes are everywhere, as far as the eye can see, closing in with murder in their eyes, and blank enforcers are shouting at him through megaphones and beating him to the ground and manhandling him into a detention pen, he can at least stare down into his smartphone for a few more seconds at all the small token JPG pictures of monkeys smoking cigarettes that he collected years ago when he had legal access to his money, and think of how very clever he was.

March 23rd 2022

We tidied the bedroom again yesterday. There are now bears watching from every angle. A great many of them, everywhere, even in unexpected places. We both find them very comforting, all adorable softness. If the Police raid again with their armed SWAT team, they will have no idea what they have stormed into. I also have quite a few new books, mainly on Renaissance sculpture, Classical architecture, European philosophy, orchestral music and opera, and mathematical Calculus. The weather is sunny today, and bright, and a little cold. We'll probably go into town for lunch.

March 29th 2022

Abby is in a very bad mood at me. She had glanced over and seen the title of the article I was reading. She has now stormed out. Before she went she told me I needed to get with the times, and stop my conspiracy theory bullshit, and also that I needed to respect her beliefs in the supernatural, as the spirits never lie. I asked her: "Okay, so what would you do if you were conducting a séance and one of your spirit dolls told you that Adolf Hitler was right, and that National Socialism was the only wholesome European response to a dead civilization gripped by a totalitarian system out to destroy them?" I also asked her if they could pass through walls. She said yes. I proceeded to ask her jokingly why they didn't fall through the floor.

March 30th 2022

It wasn't such a good day yesterday in the end. Abby, following my attempt to inability to acquiesce to her over her spirit dolls beliefs, in a great, unexpected, defensive anger, phoned my Dad up to complain about me, in the hope that he would tell me off. She simultaneously told me that Dad had passed derogatory remarks about me to her when he was staying with us at the start of the year. She refused to tell me what he had said.

When he came on the phone, she refused to pass it to me, so I could defend myself, after she gave a very distorted, bitter, one-sided view of the events prior. All he could hear was me shouting to her in the background, aghast, demanding that I was allowed to tell my side also. Eventually, she threw the phone at me, having announced to my Dad "see Billy? What's the point?" It was delivered as a self-evident statement.

When I put the phone to my face to speak, he spoke first. He told me off for shouting. The only sentence - I do mean only - I got to try and say was, strained, breaking in desperation, quite literally, verbatim, "please Dad... please... please! You don't understand..." He kept talking, drowning any chance to correct him. He didn't even tell me to stop trying to speak alongside him. He just kept talking, forcefully, on and on, until the words themselves pushed me into silence. I couldn't bear any more and hung up in exasperation. I'm sure he considered this 'yet another' unstable rudeness on his end. She was vindicated, a slight smile to her face. No words were said. I slumped in defeat, and terrible embarrassment.

Later, I emailed him, telling him that I was displeased to have been talked about me behind my back, and that I felt betrayed, and that he could take the painting that he recently commissioned from me, and stick it up his arse.

He sent me a letter back later, breaking off relations, and stating that I am not to contact him ever again. He acknowledged that he is dying, and has only, at most, weeks to live. He's been saying this statement for quite a while. At least three years.

I sent my own reply, which dredged up 30 years of brutal resentment and pain, and a little love (there is always that terrible, scalding love - the factors that keeps me in guilt, doubt, uncertainty, and ultimate despair...I love him more deeply than he has ever been able to love me), and called it quits also.

I went downstairs later, alone, and opened the kitchen drawer, staring a long time at the power tools. There was some idea beyond expression, but not beyond atrocious, final pain. Then I had a bath, and looked straight through the water coming from the taps.

When I came back upstairs I told Abby of what had transpired between me and my father. "Oh" she said, and then proceeded to excitedly inform me that her youngest spirit toy had lit up the ghost-sensor motion-activated ball she had bought for him, and that she'd captured it on camera. I just let her speak in my right ear, on and on, as I looked at my laptop, did some new art, and played my "Wyrm Cast" album, a self-penned song collection dedicated to my Dad, sorrowful of his illness and his physical suffering. I changed the cover to a photo of his commissioned painting, just darkened in photo-editing though, stained and spoiled. Abby was still telling me about her irrefutable proof of ghosts, I think.

Then she grew very sad, and informed me that the TV-series Holby City has been cancelled. She told me to go downstairs and check the back-door was locked, so I moved down to inspect the bathroom.

Shortly afterwards I went to bed, and lay on my right side in the darkness, dreaming of distant woodlands, and acres of dark blood, and slugs with teeth. Then sleep came, and, somewhere else, I just cried intangibly until dawn.

Abby's still sleeping this morning. I'm awake, and looking out from far back, I feel near to nothing. Not nothing though.