Translation vertigo continues. I've been trying to figure out when it started and the only answer that springs to mind is: before the beginning of time. I can't recall having more than one week off from struggling with my mind, sleepless and (social)lifeless, and torturing my wits (which turns out to be quite pleasant, as long as I do not even try to conceal my sado-masochistic proclivities). Anyway, the side effect of my intellectual antics is that now I am an expert (self-proclaimed, naturally) in many surprising fields, such as operatic language, the bathos of which never ceases to amuse and amaze me: And lo, before the sun rises and bathes these moors with blood, my triumphant sabre shall pierce your treacherous heart! or: Creek, ye black hinges of the hellish doors! I also pride myself in having mastered the most perverse art of Canadian, religion-derived vulgarisms. Choose any word that is vaguely connected with Christendom and there you go: you're being naughty!

As in my case night is the only reasonable time to work, my diurnal rhythm has become heavily syncopated: I go out only when I run out of food and/or fags, always at no man's time, when snow is radiant with azure rays that clash with the artificial-orange glow of lamplights. To make amends for my torments I abuse the eyes of decent people with my gigantic glam fur and the appearance of a constantly partying dandy (a pack of Djarrums and a bottle of kefir, or maybe two, on second thoughts, two packs and two bottles, that is). They call it repulsive flamboyance, I call it the insanity of an overworked translator.

Loads of things happen in the meantime, of course. For example the first polpo-tour, during which I found myself on the verge of becoming an axe-wielding homicidal maniac, as we had yet another in-band falling out. During such cut'n'thrust discussions my inner Zen master at first bangs his head against the wall and then, having abandoned the most alluring visions of bloody carnage, he invariably manages to hush the ridiculous tantrums of my adorable bandmate. I keep satisfaction, moral and intellectual superiority and anecdotal value as my sweet reward. What a shame that all the members of my other band are too nice to inflict terror on them without pangs of conscience. But you can't have it all. Or can you.

And then comes a rather unfortunate nexus: the aforementioned artbreak and translation overload, an unexpected crisis of faith in my auto-healing abilities, with mc's advent as a coup de grace to finish me off. As a result, my infamous eye-disease is back, its superpowers outstripping mine and forcing me to indulge in such dubious pleasures as multiple injections square in the eyeball: jaded intellectuals think of The Andalusian Dog, the others just go squeamish. This way or the other, again it's only the anecdotal value that can save me.