Ra Dave!

4.43 a.m.
Dave and I are from the acid. I met Dave, if I remember right, at the Pink Floyd concert in the Pill Centre circa 1971. This is before we became all dead responsible, before Dave got baldy and all that.

So one step too far with the New Year. I'm still typing in technocolour. So Dave says he's dead sensible these days, but can't stop himself from picking up the magic mushrooms when he's scliffing the shanks, or whatever you do at the goolf.

So in the midst of the awful, awful, but dead nice evil bourgeois shit, he hands me all these munchie munchie mushrooms. Pissed at the time, your honour.

So I ate them all, as you do!

Completely lost it. I'm in the kitchen. Please keep the door shut:

It's not even .... anyway, lost it. Fabulous of course. Totally lost in the kaleidscope. Forgot about how wonderful it was, except for the old women battering on the kitchen door to get in. Anyway, well done, Dave. It's appearances, not reality.

It don' t think women like the New Year. They like Christmas. And being able to see straight and get out the door. So bless them!

2:55 p.m.
The last time I took hallucogenics was when Roseanna Cunningham won Perth in a by election for the SNP. That must be fifteen years ago anyway, probably more.

Never had such a strong effect from taking mushrooms before. Of course, when they started coming on, I'd forgotten I'd taken them. Dearie me! Completely whacked. Lost in beautiful 3D geometric shapes as my head slumped onto the kitchen table. I wouldn't mind having a go at them again, but only when the flat was empty and under medical supervision, of course.

Anyway, now the flatheids will slowly go back to their normal stations and stop running about mad things, and I can get on with investigating ra bliss. I'm hoping to stop doing all bad things this year. And just do good things. No tobacco, no beer, no bob hope. Pay off my debts. Make sure I can afford to be at the Samye Ling over Christmas and New Year next year. Yes!