Yes, it's a problem I have. (I think we all have it, don't we?) Who is David Urch? Who are these people? Who am I? And who are ... YOU(!)?!
Is this ... David Urch, I mean, EVERYTHING that he is? Or ... this - ? Or ... this - ?
They want me to believe - me, of all shamans - that David Urch works at Garraway Capital Management. Does that make any sense to you, dear reader(s)?
Why would our Dave, Mr Urch, work there? Why would he work anywhere? Isn't there more chance of his spinning a-ROUND in the mystic space of my head? 'Urch in your head? That's where they all are, boss. None of these people are real.' I fear you may be right, Voice.
[The Voice is real. My intern. At least I can hear him, yeah? I can't hear Mr Urch in my head.]
It's so disturbing, so upsetting. / Uh, alone, in my room. Surfing the internet, trying to believe. Then I look out the window. What do I see? Well, there's a tree. A few birds. But no fund managers! Where are all the fund managers?
[Where do you go to, my lovely, when you're alone in my head? 'Me?' No, not you.]
Let me tell you ... doing this, writing this blog, for eight years can affect YOU(!) in funny ways. / Nothing makes sense. And nothing seems real. There was a budget yesterday ...
I don't know. Maybe it's another shaman's sickness. Maybe I'm just in a mood, you dig?
I'm really pissed off. / I tell you what I need, dear reader(s). I need - 'A good egg sandwich, Mikey. A luxury one.' Yes! For lunch. But I keep missing breakfast, Voice. It's not healthy starving myself till lunchtime, you know? I'm a growing boy! / Of course, in Cornwall I had a cooked breakfast every morning. Vegetarian sausages, egg, tomato, fried bread, baked beans, orange, tea ... and four slices of toast! 'Christ!' Yeah, I was in paradise, man.
...
No. 330? Later.
Is this ... David Urch, I mean, EVERYTHING that he is? Or ... this - ? Or ... this - ?
They want me to believe - me, of all shamans - that David Urch works at Garraway Capital Management. Does that make any sense to you, dear reader(s)?
Why would our Dave, Mr Urch, work there? Why would he work anywhere? Isn't there more chance of his spinning a-ROUND in the mystic space of my head? 'Urch in your head? That's where they all are, boss. None of these people are real.' I fear you may be right, Voice.
[The Voice is real. My intern. At least I can hear him, yeah? I can't hear Mr Urch in my head.]
It's so disturbing, so upsetting. / Uh, alone, in my room. Surfing the internet, trying to believe. Then I look out the window. What do I see? Well, there's a tree. A few birds. But no fund managers! Where are all the fund managers?
[Where do you go to, my lovely, when you're alone in my head? 'Me?' No, not you.]
Let me tell you ... doing this, writing this blog, for eight years can affect YOU(!) in funny ways. / Nothing makes sense. And nothing seems real. There was a budget yesterday ...
I don't know. Maybe it's another shaman's sickness. Maybe I'm just in a mood, you dig?
I'm really pissed off. / I tell you what I need, dear reader(s). I need - 'A good egg sandwich, Mikey. A luxury one.' Yes! For lunch. But I keep missing breakfast, Voice. It's not healthy starving myself till lunchtime, you know? I'm a growing boy! / Of course, in Cornwall I had a cooked breakfast every morning. Vegetarian sausages, egg, tomato, fried bread, baked beans, orange, tea ... and four slices of toast! 'Christ!' Yeah, I was in paradise, man.
...
No. 330? Later.
