What the front cover of a magazine tells us is that we’re all the same, we can expect more of the same, and we have no ability to change. Another magazine draws our attention to this beautifully, its frail joke being accentuated by the same advertising revenues it needs for the oxygen of (death). The contributors, all coming from the same graphical and typographical colleges around the Elephant are all dynamic self starters. All that differs is the hypographic and the glossy rubbing of shoulders with other mags on not‐so‐glossy shelves. Oh sad, only an 1/8th of the mag is on show, there’s so many of the bleeders. The chocolates on the opposite counter stare over at them, all much more visible, much more tempting, and satisfying. They won’t get ragged or lie around in unwanted places being abused nervously with teeth or cancer on the mind. They will be of secondary stature, contempt. The ones nearest the back of the rack are suffocating near glossia failure, squeezed not only by the weight of their compatriots but also by the demands of the fridge which also has nowhere else to go. Some of the glassy supermodels are boiling up from the heat near the ceiling, turning their edges limp unlike the shrink wrapped sandwiches nearby, and curling. The models are so congested in that heavy thicket they can hardly peer out. See inside for details. Unable to contain itself to the flagellating confines of mixed (message) media is the Internet the unbridled bastard son of internment. So caste away from the shackles of (re) (con) finement it sparks out in riotous manifestations of nothing like the same thing entirely. It doesn’t need to make sense, isn’t sponsored by Accurist, has no boarders, isn’t party to racism, sexism, doesn’t cost much more than half a Mars bar but does have a lot of very naked super and really not so supermodels. The internet (small eye) fluorishes your smile away, flourishes on the very abandonment, the wanton gaze, the idiotic freedom, the uncensorable remands of the old world society (beer, fags, sex). Buried within, treasures, like Egyptian buried. A society brought up on FHM Grazia Vogue aren’t necessarily going to find all that buried treasure. It’s all because there aren’t enough windows cleaners any more. Click click heaven. Espace Mytube Youbay and Basefook. The word favourites like some chemical compilation falls out of the window (but hey, it does NOT overlap) and there in the dock, on trumped‐up charges in the familiar cliché, the subtext of boredom, worn‐out boredom inching itself a few millimetres along hyperspace. Manki(a)nd woe is I. Is me rather. Woe is me. No no. Woe go me. Woe go me Woe go meeeeee Tis better to travel in hope than to arrive. Tis better to hop to travel An Apple a day keeps the doctor away An Apple a day keeps the post man (as in after) away Posthumous being dead but still funny Micro as in soft Soft as in the head. Another (part) one.