Punctuation Marks


Still in the library and reading the new edition of New Scientist. It’s weekly and with my consumption of other learned magazines, newspapers and books, I often don’t finish things. I didn’t read all of last week’s New Scientist, nor daily or Saturday editions of The Guardian; and I just dip in and out of the reference books. I’ll finish Life of Pi though abd this week’s topics in New Scientist which have piqued my interest are The Square Root of a Sheep (could a monstrous, unseen mathematical entity be pulling the strings of the cosmos?); Evolution of a Monster: how cancer turns from benign cell to invasive tumour; Genetic engineering; Epilepsy and inner peace (the tranquility brought about in some when they’re rendered incapacitated (physically and mentally) by a seizure); Cryogenics…

I read the learned magazines (and the newspapers) and I researched the books in the library, before departing for my early evening coffee in McDonald’s. Between venues I smoked a cigarette. Between leaving McDonald’s and pitching up at the station, I’ll smoke a cigarette. Before I met Beck today, I smoked a cigarette, then some more in the time we spent together, in between doing things; the things I do every day. Cigarettes are my punctuation marks; my pauses.

I was asked today why I wear a beard (it tends to grow on you). I have no means of shaving at present but even without a full beard, I maintain facial stubble: it disguises cuts, burns and bruises: exclamation marks and question marks. 

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