The paradox of the modern egg.

A message from comrade Vladimir Yolkovich of the Red Cup Brigades:

COMRADES!

It is not right that, as sleepy eggs, you should be alienated from your own yolk by the beater of modernity.
Yes, it is difficult given the pressures we face not to lose sight of our purpose, not to sucumb to sterile categorisation as slightly spaced out protein wafters.

WE must not follow the logic of our hard-boiled forefathers who elevated our sleepiness above all things; Nietzschean distance is the road to egg flu, not greatness. Yes, our sleepiness is a gift, but it is not one that should merely lead to a strong eggy subculture in what Max Weggber so rightly called the "iron egg cup of modernity".

WE must use our innate egginess to climb our own shell barricades and proclaime eggdom against those forces that would stilfle the charismatic yolk at the heart of all of us.

SLEEPY EGGS OF THE WORLD CUP UNITE!

I have not cracked, thank you.

Egg was temporarily indisposed and thus retreated to the egg bunker for a few days.

I was pleased comrade Fat Hams publicised my recent publication on Sleep, Egg and my thoughts on Ham. If you are unable to attend the seminar, a follow up hamphlet on the dialectics of scrambled dreams will be on the shelves shortly. Should you wish to pre-order a copy, please contact the publisher, Benedict&Florentine or indeed, Ham willing, Veronica Pancetta.

It's not so much the fear of poaching that keeps me awake at night, more the fear that egg might have to roll out amongst the hams and the humans and not be understood. Being oval, egg doesn't even roll in a proper direction.

gosh it is exhausting being a sleepy egg. I've been so eggy all day i don't think there's much hope for improvement and i should probably actually fall asleep. Maybe i'll just join the fat hams....

Its getting worse. I am now questioning the structure of the entire week to come. It just doesn't seem possible.

That's the trouble when one is hungover as well as beeing sleepy as well as being an egg. The purity of the shell is a terrible lie, and everything is shrouded in mist.

egg will never drink again.

At least not the same quantity and in that particular order.

Ham said this morning 'Don't you feel like when you wake up after a night of drinking parts of your brain have been replaced?'

An interesting first statement given that he'd been snoring like a moose for hours.

Personally i think it's the same brain but pickled. The most novel addition to my existence since awaking today is the small tramp who seems to have moved in/died in my mouth.

eugh. Will any part of the day be salvaged? People are bounding purposefully past the window, some smiling and waving at me. My smile is nothing more than a crack in the shell of an old nut. But it fools them. They don't know the hollowness, they can't see the small tear of gin trickling dowm my cheek.

Woe is me. Though that bagel has made me feel a little better.

Funny i went in search of ham's blog and ended up writing this. Oh well, probably the last time i'll ever write. The last cry for help. The last wail in this perpetual sunday gloom. I need to find a cave somewhere. Or an egg cup.