A rather miserable mood sets in. To do with food, fatness or flatness. Dancing, fighting and footy on Thursday. All the things, the things we do between hours. Rapid, withdrawn extras. Extasy and Tassie exes. Black coffee reliance; stimulate a need, a mood, a quiet column of white quartz. A pillar to rest ideas, a pillow to hide your fears. Handshakes between acquaintances are as if to say “yep, yep, you are real”. Arms length. Any closer a kiss. And further amiss. A stretch, sick sadness. Fists clenching, written in the sands and low tide. Reaching for you, washing away your name. This was the mans mood. No wolf in his heart. Empty functions devoid of meaning. A parable for most things, no caring gene like the IT guy. Called in, called on, used, demanded capabilities without thanks or real human recompense. A lost art. Heartless floundering furrows. ConfusedCONFUSEDfucking metaphors. Nothingness, just rage, just back, justJUTSJUSTINJUSTin just. Held back, a baby bouncing. Sleep and my bad vibes. Early early early blankets. Sodden softened unrest. Request help, say yes, die young, care everlasting is found in your favourite colour. Help me help me help me. Blind, open bee keeper. Buzzing at my ears. Soundly legs are broken, back bending, heart pounding. A tireless huh-huh. Fathoms below the perceivable surface. Changing colour

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