Weeks apart and you ask.
I get my hair cut.
You are Peter, or Paul. I am Patrick.
We’re all saints.
My neurosis about clippers. The snapshot image of hair.
Buzz cuts, frayed hair. Split ends.
Moles. Moses. Mold. Fungus. Feet.
Cravings, cutting. Wrists Wits, angles.
up and down, sex. apple. Crayon. Pink.
Connotations. Associable. Friendships and barriers.

The memory of spooning you, of dancing with you.
Around my waist. Thighs locking. Hugging, holding. Sweating,
bouncing singing. All of that a close memory. So distant.
Dusted.

Calling people off phones. Those phone bills, unlimited access.
The briefs about the people, the strangers that people are calling.
i’m sorry I missed you party.
I’m obsessed with sex. Forgive me.
Wait, in the darkness of my room.
Listen to music, think think react. Write, think.
Avoid people; drinking and smoking.
My old bones, and ideals. Only holding and hugging.
It would be so easy to ask.
Just come over. Lay with me.
My room a mess, a meddley of colour and ideas.
Ensmeshed with poor taste and anxiety.

lets play the name game.
Everyone introduces themself.
I hand out a piece of paper.
I declare the name of the game “a miniscule mystery”.

The grey. The dying.
Jess, Patrick, Laurence, Shaun, Jacob, Mia, Trevor, Josh, Jackson, Brian (the lion), Kat, and they all write. And they all put their answers in the hat. They write down one name. And then I keep all the names.
I know the name that got written the most. That is all.
No more meaning may be read.

Another game-
Introducing other people in the group. Breaking down what you know about them. Objective, shallow. Asking for stories, asking for descriptions. Creative. Shallow, sweeping, basic, hurtful, painful, ordinary: revealing.

Coffee today with a girl, that’s a friend. and a friend of a friend. I don’t know why we met up really. I was just curious and she didn’t seem to mind.
It was all very strange. As I wondered. And asked questions. And shared and tried to help. I hope she’s ok. I’m not.

Whathave you been up to patrick> Oh not much, sacrificing sleep for partying, riding to parties in goodwood, dancing with strangers, avoiding girls I don’t know. Talking loosely, drinking heavily, feeling numb and disjoineted, jumbling words, working hard, trying at university, talking at salamanca, fasting, binge eating, wishing, waiting wanting, thinking, stalling, spending being generous, oversharing, creating ordeals. Disconnecting from conversations. Stari staring. now i’m writing with my eyes closed. I feel like i’ve got a flow. I could fall asleep i could I really could this post will ogo on. Eyes closed. Like that titcanic song. Jack. Hugo saying stuff about smoking, bongs and boring things. Facial hear. People hnging out under the hairy tree in Salamanca. Driinking beer, low socio economic. The feel of the keeps is wrong I just checked to see where i’m at.

Still lost. Sad. Tears sneak up on me sometimes.
That awful skinny french man.
Tyler, looking far too skinny. Not believing in god. Smoking.
Unsavable.

What’s your CREED?

I have advice to give and things to keep.
So much to share, so many secrets.
No manipulation. Out of control, animalistic, instincts. all for sex.
Kids, beautiful honest growing things. Monsters. Globe eyes.
Watching, mimic, feerful, excitement.
The next gen-
jen jen.
Gesture wildly. See a show, same shit. Life is short, so you must get away.
too long between being on the tools.
and my mind bubbles.
Too much coffee, a haircut and silence.
A change, not so dramatic.
Yoga tomorrow. Zen me out.
Breakfast of porridge or museli. I can never spell that word first time.
ASTERISK. strange.
And it all comes down.
I feel like i’m not in control of what I do.
I can stand by my self.
I think of love and its relation to betrayal.
Fuck. those close to your heart.
I am immune. I am shared, I will give.
Fuck me fuck me fuck me.
I just want to share, I want to be held. By anyone.
I am ambitious. I will share, I want to know everyone,
What makes them tick.

Drives them on. No acid in their eyes. Clear and functional.
not made up, fake or shallow.
round characters, not flat.
Humanist. Unsolvable, definable, mathematics.
Unable to define itself, using itself. Just a finely crafted point to explain other models. The stuff of physics and confused notions of brilliant organics. The systems and models that we all see in reality.
The colour t.v. the shows, the books, the nature, the popular, the culture, the abuse, the slang that jargon.
No grey. I want the mystery of grey.
Lets tap into it.
Orgasmic in the un-names.
Hyphens everywhere.
No shortening to the task.
Take it.
words running into one-another.
everything interrelated.
Injected with truth and other meaning.
Creative. Loss, lost.
six, theft. Lust of nine,
miss of eleven. chaos of twelve and the lack of luck for thirteen.
Seven brings it back and we all play honesty.
and you’ll never know.
And you don’t say the mantra so you cheat and you cheat and you cheat.
And you don’t define, so you never cheat.
You opperate in this psychotic, psychosis. No-
philanthropists will come. Nothing to be shared anymore.
Just grey mist.
Master of all scything statements.
Glinting laze. and scintillation
scathed, scyths glint.
And we rebel.
revelling. Mia! Mia,
MIANMA. Buy some clothes while you travel, I love your tripped, wripped jeans. ripper.
Jack, who’s name was Liam.
We were stoned. Sanga was confused. I was useless.
And it was all reductive and useless.
He took another hit because he was about to bottom out.
6 minutes after his last hit.
That unlucky, whitening feeling.
Wilting. Waining. Heart-fainting.
love me love me love me.
I’m thinking of you.
Thinking of you all.
Twinkling. Wine. Glitz.
The ritz and Ida Adams tits.
Your proper name isn’t that, is it?
Ellen. Smart girl, of Hong Kong.
Sick sister and I wish I knew more.
I wish I knew.
Family family.
A Type-A personality.
The jokes the jokes.
lame, flailing. Nothings.
Fuck me fuck me fuck me.
And you leave early.
and the flowers wilt.
Han’ flower.
Potato potato spud.
Tomato Tomato you’re a cunt.