This is still my stuff.

OK, so here's a bit of discussion. People use these bendy things to walk on. What they do, right, is to decide with their want-o-mats where the place they want to be at is, and then they stimulate their get-it mechanisms to make their leg muscles pump lactate into their bloodstreams. Yes, I know, this might sound like a daft thing to do, but if we take, simply for the purposes of discussion (this discussion, the one we're having now - yes, you, I'm discussing this with you, you agreed to that when I said one was coming and you didn't stop reading, remember?), "useful" as meaning "enabling the achievement of want-o-matically desirous circumstantial endpoints" in the context of specifically geographic want-o-mation, then it has a useful side-effect, namely that they end the aforementioned point, exhausting, or at least re-calibrating, its wantiness.

These ones, the ones in the picture that you're looking at by using your Conceptualisation of Phenomena Unit (hmm, that needs some catchy little word-morsel to remember it by, doesn't it? How about, ooh, "CPU"?), aren't actively pumping; this isn't a bad thing, because they've pumped themselves up the stairs and now they're having a little rest, even though their owners, as composite entities, are actively engaged (though they may not be aware of the activeliness of their engagement) in achieving their want-nullification, by sitting on the bus. So given that their composites are merely expressions of their presence to the moment as the immanence of everything (like, duh, obviously), their legs are the same as their brains, their mechanics hum like an orchestra, they're on the bus and they're getting where they're going, and even though they're the same as the bus and the bus is the same as where they're going, they're still happy about it. It's as though their whole existences were transformed, on the temporal axis, into meta-legs.

Wicked. The world truly is a beautiful place. Even if it is all the same as itself.

Two days after the UK general election, I lay in bed on a Saturday afternoon wishing the sun would refrain from poking through the slits in my bedroom windows' shutters and snaking its sharpness into the fug of my simultaneously Friday night- and heavy cold-addled consciousness. While drifting gratefully into and irritably out of sweaty dreamworlds, I was suddenly made aware of a blaring noise, sat bolt upright and, looking through the window, was presented with the shiny pate of George Galloway on an open-top bus, his colleagues shouting through an enormous PA system "WE WON! YEAH! WE WON, RIGHT? WE WON! HA!" or some such. So I took this photo. "That'll show the opportunistic self-publicist", I thought. "Let's see how loudly you shout when everyone's staring at your bald patch."

I bet he's quaking in his boots.