She thinks I'm much too thin.

She asks me if I'm sick.

I think personally that I always look sick. As far as I know, I'm not. At the very least I don't have any blood diseases. Or if I do, they have come along within the last few months. I haven't had any piercings or injections but I did smash my face on some very unclean metal and settled for treating myself as my nurse was quite unwilling to cooperate with the fact that me or any of my friends couldn't drive to the hospital. It was alright, but I got a scar.

I couldn't sleep very well last night. I tried reading Mary Shelly's Frankenstein. Then I tried reading Robert Anton Wilsons Cosmic Trigger. Then I tried reading The Rum Diary by Hunter S. Thompson. None of them sent me to sleep so I raked my zen garden, considered playing computer games but decided to listen to pianos. It was all very good.

I had a dream that air was running out so we had to buy it and install it in our houses. The higher classes were fast tracked where as the the lower classes struggled. The dream was vivid enough that I recall a newspaper saying that the last of The Projects had become a ghost town and the bodies were likely not to be recovered but simply built over. This is also where the dream ended, on top of a very tall British council flat as I realised that no one in my city was alive anymore. Everyone lived in London where they would eventually be relocated to America because they had all the money.

It's good when you have a dream that you can turn into a film and become rich and afford air when it starts running out.