Mixed meats. Migoreng. Milk. Milo.

By not writing one story, I show the rich and winding world clammed between pages.

The weekend was long, I lost poker. 2 pair. Ace Queen. Lost to pocket 6’s, 3-of-a-kind. My magic 8-ball lied to me. But that’s ok. I drank a 6-pack of beer, played articulation, then I played chess. I lost. my king to his king and 3 pawns. I could have played for a stale mate I believe. 25 moves is it?

I turned in later. I had a chat with the guy Harry. He’s a funny guy. Reminds me of Tom Port. Super okka. Ozzy identity. Plays up to it. Chatty. Gift of the gab. Recycling loadstone ideas of social classicism. Aware, interpollating, pollution of social realness. Acting. Jargoning, jester, flippant, bar-loweriing, self destructive. Safe. Chipper, chatter. OK.

A cold day, just need to go for a run to get going. I need to hold it down for two more weeks. I think I can do it. I might head to uni now.
Extinction narrative in 10:04 makes sense, or something that is allegorical with white privilege, dominant culture and hierachy of stemming from skin colour and the representation of art and cultural value.
Wait staff (the help). Helpers vs autonomy.

And then I slept on the couch. And I dreamed. I thought of Jon as my footballing coach. He was down and depressed. Miserable, I was angry. I thought about how mad he made me feel, I chased after him, running up a hill, chicken wire on the ground. We held eachother over a precipice. I said “this is worthy, two brothers, pitted against one another, this is real! I will forever be trying to get you back for this betrayal” – I rememeber thinking. We both held on to a wooden stake with one hand.

I was told that a girl has MS. We are all confused. Me especially by the symptoms. To make light of such a thing, is my way when indeed I do not know what i’m missing. Difficulty walking, blurred vision, muscle weakness, fatigue and changes in memory.

Its the worrying state of the world. I don’t know what it all means. Not one bit. But the extinction narrative drives me on. Driving, fast, burning up, neck choking, hot and heavy breath. My brow sweats. The streets go un-swept. Rain washed debris from one main to another out and into the greater ocean bowells. We have lost control. Refuse, refuses to receed. Errosion and regret eat at us like the cycle of the mood. We are refugees by night, dead to the world. By day we play at power games and the cynics roll dice and pray for better fortunes. At the bottom of every hill there is respite from the nausea. This boy in a rubber tire has turned himself inside out, lost control and most of all his love, his caring for others that make him human.

I followed, I chased my brother and I reacted. Only in the presence of others may we be judged. Alone we are isolated, inert. Safe, anti-sexualized. No responses, or serial for this race. Just me. No “I”. Alone and unresponsive. “You have plenty of time”. I’m sorry world. I’m so sorry.