Samo Hung a Head on the Alley

Rebels are we, though heavy our hearts shall always be
Ah, no ball or chain no prison shall keep
We`re the rebels of the sacred heart
I said no ball or chain no prison shall keep
We`re the rebels of the sacred heart

So I wish that my shower faucet would end its tireless demonic posession and let me enjoy a nice hot shower instead of alternating between freezing fucking cold and completely skin peeling, bacteria obliterating hot. I take it by it's current, sudden spew of water from the shut-off nozzle that it knows I'm thinking ill thoughts. Rot in hell you craptacular piece of plumbing. I'll plumb you. Plumb you reeaaal good-like.
Simplicty is the order of things, not like the order of things really changes. Surely it seems to, with people coming and going and objects traversing the sky and stars, policies made and broken, friends forgotten, etc, etc, etc. I must remark how little it changes. It seems complicated, the whole lot of it, yes, but it isn't. We just can't resist the layering of the actions, one atop the other, that make it so, we expect to see such fantastic complexity that we will never fail to see it. There are desires, but they are merely desires, there are dreams, but they are but dreams. Life is life, it is unexplicable and delightful, and sodding hard without any doubt, but it is life. I've congradulated myself in this realisation, because it has been a long way to have come this far, a great exploration in idea and belief and abolishment of all restrictions. Brilliant really, because all along there is just life. Quiet and innervating, shy and firm. I am diluted, perhaps, well, more likely than not, simply am, without the perhaps, sans the corollaries. But at this point I fail to see where I should begin to be concerned.
I am restless in a new fashion. When I am truely tired I sleep and I sleep well, dreaming in black and white, vivid yellows even at times, all traversing and settlig. When I am restless I am unwearied and startlingly clear of purpose at any moment. Very unlike the insomnia, I almost welcome it, this trace of energy transducing to thought that recently just flows without hitch, weightless and streamed.
A pint of Hoegaarden and a window over the city of Glasgow was all I needed and had the other night. I was burning to do nothing but sit and listen. No clutter of thought, no digestion of motive or action. I looked out over the quiet campus in the wee hours of the morning through the lit glass of sleeping buildings and found it absolutely the most beautiful thing. So much like a toddler gently and slowly curling into slumber. So tumultuous, violently erupting into fits of tremors and howls, just then so absolutely silent and fading from the world, ignorant of every pain and parting that had and would occur. I could never do justice in human language all the things I see, or at least the way in which I have witnessed them. But I will sleep all the easier for their occurence, for their existence in these late evenings. Mush it all seems in retrospect but I have such clarity these past few days that I feel your foul opinions of my banter are just quite irrelevant.