Today I plaster this page with those unwritten lists. I write for order and progress. So that I might look back and reflect. See how much I’ve achieved. Look what I’ve done. Progress.

Jack Kerouac – ‘the feeling of an empty train station’. It must have just left. The restraint of the still air and the fading warmth from the metal tracks. The distance grows, numbness grows with a subtle vibration. Perhaps another train hurtling along the tracks. Coming or going – I wonder. Just passing through, an A to B of timeliness. Importance and waste tangle with serpents biting themselves. The pit of my stomach, the inability to continue functioning the way I want to. Memory shatters. I am present and fearful of the images and perceptions of others. The almighty well from which they might draw. Endless and eternally possible. Cut and hung in patterns, language like fabric and knotted rope both cover and hang about us. The performance of a lifetime, to pretend at any point it all culminates. I bubble away. “The pot on low”. Occasionally flowing over, spitting pasta on the walls. Nothing sticks, but I’m ready. I will survive. Hot air, food, the path of least resistance not always what I choose. A suffering reality, the thing I’m doing will sustain until there is betters easier though to continue doing what I have always done. My mastery is the test of time, forgetting everything but the task at hand.

This list, this list. Gift to myself, badly wrapped, unconsidered, tissue and news- are the papers which I am used to folding. Save the best for a time when we expect a beginning or something final. The continuity of our speeches and our doings. Report. Report. Report. Blood sweat and tears, whatever bubbles and flows over. My sick liver, and failing detached brain cells. Escapees from the common prison. There will be no gallows, no hanging in the commons. Atlas of my soul on earth. How does it sound, cellophane reality, taste of plastic in my mouth. The heavy posture, this badly wrapped world. Are you happy now? The mirror licked clean, isolated spirits, phone bound and numbers apart. Luck of Herman Hesse presses his German thumbs for luck. Bless your unblinking eyes, your googling, boggling loss. Where was I supposed to be, and where am I without my lists. No reflections, no knowledge, no story. Nothing seeming to connect me with the past or potential. Listless, loss-lacking, lament. Just an empty page. The list of unfulfilled lists, hopeless category . Wishful, task oriented. Miles per hour- fastly approaching the afterlife of age care homes and not so super “annuation”. Let the years go by and my attempts go to the archives. Trivial trials. Guilty trails, in selected in my mind. The pros and cons list never got past the first entry, mute complaints in the beer garden of eden. Take be back in time to see how good I am at shopping. I am not a builder- our knowledge, this time is not for everyone’s survival. Great cities will mumble. A fourteen minute standstill. It all shut down, shops closed, tumbleweed encroached and then took over. The birds started flying again. A natural piece, slivered into our homes. Uncarried by the human hand. Traded in mystery, lost archive. Natures list. Extinction. The unwritten history of all we have achieved, no language survives the way that it was. Not communicated. Moot. The jester with fingers too his liPs. A lion’s paradox. Crouch down. Make notes, pointless animations, diversions and subversions. A list of revolutions. A numbered note for shopping. If places. PhotosX trophies. Conquests. Quests and progress. Success and submissions. Deadlines and the dots. Fine points and ordinary charted moments. Time slots and revelations about what I was doing then and the things I have an opportunity to tackle. Motivation. Limp sketches of the future. Bought into, sketched on paper. Weak recycling habits of a race consumed to run in circles at its own misunderstood job. The lifestyle of the jobless, creative waste, digressions of if’s. The butts of our own monetary joke. Holy holy nights by the candle. Midnight ink and the oils of past people drown in the poor waterways of our Times. Items stem from these lists. Love, gifts and ungracious hope. The carrot on a stick existence files itself way on tissue paper. Tearing the hearts of the ugly believers. More lists tomorrow – true north. A false narrative in a morally Barron and codified eternity. Insignificant dots. Page boys throw melons at passing priests and politicians and then direction is all the same. Cross my fingers and press my thumbs. How can I make a list that saves the world from itself? Or do I: not have to do that?

Take a day. Sunday. And as ‘why’.