There is something piercing about the chorus, however... disregarding the line, "you are not just a dream", of course.

The beats in this song throw me (Madonna, "American Life"). They're thudding and deep though, make me shuffle for a second... French house, Mirwais - this guy kills me. His bootleg of his own song, his chopped up, clean acoustic guitars, the sliced-up synthesiser.
Not much can be said for this rap. It was done in "Vogue", the spoken word worked in "Rain", where the superficial profundities ran together to create an alluring general effect. But the line, "nothing is what it seems"? Just doesn't quite cut it.
(I'm giving up trying to write this thing properly.)
I'm still in the house, still in pyjamas. Listening to "Narcotic" by Liquido. I vaguely remember the song from 1999... Pulp-style vocals, triumphant analogue synthesiser, alterna-rock aesthetic, reminiscent of Ash or even Elastica.

I keep catching myself in the mirror, doing silly rock star moves. No, wait, that's a lie - I keep looking into whatever mirror is nearby, and doing silly rock star moves. Something inane that, if it were in a film clip, would still be meaningless, but would have every sense of a critical moment, of importance. I wonder why I do this. It's reminds me of what I was doing last night. What was I doing last night? (I may aswell get carried away with this, I'm not doing anything else productive like, hmm, writing an essay that was due a week and a half ago on something I still don't understand.) Well, last night, I decided that, in order to free up my essay writing, a glass or two of red might help. I had some crazy image of myself "in dialogue" with Jacques Derrida. I mean, on first reading, he seems to be talking a sort of inflated academic bullshit, so the image of myself with glass of red in hand, madly typing away seemed to fit nicely with the eccentric academic image. It's quite a superficial approach, now that I look at it. Anyway, it went pear-shaped. Undeniably pear-shaped. Picture: Tori Amos blaring, me conducting in a desperate fashion while sitting at the piano - red wine still in hand, mind you - letting the pain of the world wash over me as I bellowed to "Spark", imagining how well this bellowing would go down on a stage, at karaoke, in a film clip... Yes, I'm a part of the fucking generation that constantly visualises itself in movies, with a soundtrack, being interviewed, performing rock moves. ("Fucking generation"? Why not.) And I don't really know what else there is to say about it. Perhaps this is a reflection of what happens after too much time by myself. I'll put it down to that. And to various other emotional-personal things that I don't particularly want to describe here. But you should know that they're there, just to complete the picture. The point being that I'm a little lost at sea, and that this should be a lesson to anyone else who considers letting themselves slip too far from schedules and such other unendurable necessities.

The End.

Just a brief one - essay on incomprehensible Derrida on incomprehensible Kafka awaits.

Moving up the charts: Tori Amos ("Spark", "Raspberry Swirl"), Fiona Apple (When the Pawn...), the Cranberries (atmosphere), showering (warm and purposeful).

Moving down the charts: Jacques Derrida, publicity shots (of Jacques Derrida), effort, discipline, time alone, 2:35am, deadlines, puns (could they get any lower?), flabby writing (such as this).

There will be more.