I’ve been away for the past 48 hours. At my shack.
Rejuv’ing. Purple potion. 100%
Eating, resting, exploring.
No phone, no electricity.
Just her and I.
Fire and blankets.
I taught her how to shuffle.
We played cards.
We talked.
Humans are the only animal to believe in god but the only creature to act like they don’t.
Do animals believe in god?
Do animals have souls.
Classic.

What is east?
What is west?
We live on the surface of a sphere.
Cultures vary dramatically.

“Who has rice for breakfast”
“Good and Evil aren’t real”
“What are you thinking”
-Carry me on your back- like always.

I’m on cloud nine. What a day, what a time. what fun. Such fun. Fun fun fun.

***

She sat in an alley alone. Head bowed picking at a flayed bit of skin.
It stung. The paper thin cut she’d giver herself at such a sever angle stung. She didn’t remember putting lemon juice in the wound. Why did it sting so much.

She hadn’t been home in a few days. She rarely washed her hands with soap. Soap was for saved for those special times. Like when she’d return home, thin faced; haggard from hiking with days worth of grime and grit under her nails and eye lids.

That gravelly, sleep preventing feeling plagued her more and more recently. Closing her eyes rubbed somehow. An uncomfortable warmth would settle, like wet sandbags dragging at the bottom lid, while the top felt inside out. She pulled out her pocket mirror and spat on it.

Rubbing the smokey reflecting glass on her rag-shirt. She felt it flit over her nipple. The intricate landscape of it, hard and cold. The abruptness of teat. She shivered, feeling ill with her own breasts. Bags of wasteful flesh. Water. Fat. Slappy Bags. Fucking anchors. Sick, she just felt sick.

Looking at herself. One eye closed, mouth cracked into a one sided smile. To the brim, resentment washed out of her with each exhale from those cracked lips. She pinched the skin behind her right ear, hard. And listened for her pain. A habit she’d developed recently.

She’d first started cutting when she was very young. Just 11. “Cutting” people called it. Like it was common. Truth be told it was. But people in their innumerable, immeasurable boredoms found infinite justifications. Reasoning. Raising pulses. Feeling alive. Pleasure of pain. Humanity. Control. Deep bullshit. Then it was. And not heaps had changed.
“attention seeking behaviour”. – she shuddered.

Individual cut down to its stump. Glory, a glowering, shiver of a woman. She pulled a pencil from her pocket. Then out came the basic sharpener. She’d removed the tiny blade from the large shaver, and left the small. What a buy. Her two favourite pass times. Bliss. She gritted her teeth. Grinding too her temples. She bit back the renewed string in her wrist. Spittle shot from her lips.

She was a medusa. Lank hair, arched back, legs curled under and back behind her. Sharpening her pencil to begin writing, wrists ablaze. One eye open. Head down. She thought about singing a song she’d heard recently and started to chuckle silently. Her shoulders rising. Like a crow with two broken wings trying to take off. A tear rolled down her face, and she wiped at it with her slashed wrist. No blood. Just a thin, paper thin piece of skin. The width of her smallest finger nail. Cut in, and under and slide, control, unique, close attention. Fire and pain. All the way around like a bracelet. She could wear it anytime. And only cost as much as a pencil sharpener.

Sniffing. She looked to her satchel. Poetry today maybe. She’d hit a good vein recently. She didn’t know the difference between good poetry and bad. She thumbed her wrist. Then pinched behind her ear. She wanted to go an waste time elsewhere now. Thoughts came to her in droves sometimes. And she’d no idea who was driving them. They didn’t stick to the rules. The roads in her mind were clogged with wreckage. Smouldering. Bodies and bad fumes spilling from head-on collisions.

Why a baseball bat. Why do I have to have one of those. And why would I hit roses. Flowers should remain un-picked. I said that to myself just yeterday.
“What fun would that be”
Now. Now matters. Hit them in joy. Swing and beat them into the sky. Let the breeze share their beauty with the world. Growing only to die. Never to be free. Scatter them before they are ashes. Colours my petal.

She heard pain. It was her own. She held her breath. Her back cracked. Heart beat once. Belly, chest swelled. Beat growing. Heat, the sound of static. No pain. Not too far. She breathed out slowly. Then back in. Sweet. Roses and apricots. She’d eaten one earlier. What a strange thought process. The front part of her brain hurt in her head.

Wood pecker trying to drill into her frontal lobe. She needed to get laid. Her legs were pulp. Pins and needles were five minute ago. Up an down. Up and down. Roll off coat. GET TOAST FOR HER. Jam, jam, jam. Sweet. But don’t listen, pinch yourself behind the ear, hard. Listen to my pain. Feel that it is what it is.

She licked her lips. She had to get. Resolute, lips pursed, then a straight line. Arms out for balance. Bag strap wrapped around her wrist. Swinging erratic. Stinging ebbing. “done! How can I still be feeling”

Her senses were muting slowly. The white haze was setting in. She’d rubbed grey-lead from her pencils, from days worth of writing, shavings into her hair. Bits and clouds of grey would fall like dandruff and puffs of clouds. She was the forgotten vacuum cleaner bag. Dust came in clouds. Tiny bits that could choke and kill. Glass, dirt, grit. Serrated nails. Straight teeth. White too. Dry lips. Dry everything. Parched, she wobbled her way down the alley. Towards this light.

Senses tingling.
I’ve done it out of love for myself. Nobody else lets themselves experience what I do. I do it. I do it to me. I feel my bones. I am raw. Her heart was a waterfall. Legs were beams. Thighs, bamboo. Spine knuckled. Hands wretched. Face grim but for the smile. Wretched, hellbent. Resolute as the dust was to drift and fall.

She stepped into the light and hailed a black cab. Standing at the door until the driver got out and tucked her into her seat. Putting a belt about her.
He listened intently to her, pinching his ear to her whisper.
-Took money before the cab set off.
Away’t’went’tide of others. Nothing left to feel.
Black

So the tale goes,
“he writes characters before he writes plots”
That’s what he does. Creates great characters.
Fully fleshed out. Bound up in tomes.
Tombs more like, some will never get a look in – such is the worth of the character, the plot they’d further require just wouldn’t warrant their release.

I asked my own for a disclosure of himself. He is a young man that i’ve tried to capture:

It is me. Jon. Lord of the cantankerous cheese loving gypsy folk. I travel the lands offering sage advice and guidance. I enjoy wit, intelligent turn of phrase and phrasing. I believe in honesty and reaping what you sow. I like hats. I think the most wonderful thing is being around people who make you smile. I have decided to take up yoga and perhaps ballroom dancing. I think it is important to continue acquiring new skills and knowledge. I would like to learn to paint as well but I may wait until I move to Italy for that.

That’s his effort. His work, that may or may not have otherwise gone un-seen, unwritten, undiscovered. My brother. A beautiful soul. Big brother. Someone for me to fight, wail against, rail, revile, revel with. Someone to grow old with. Spend time with. Wonder at. Think about. Hug. Hit. Hail or high five. Punch it. Dance with. Back to back. Games, sport, time well spent. Night or day. Side by side, room next to room. Hated and loved. Big brother.

My goal to write every day.

I could do instalments for a book. A novel.
In-stall-ments. stall, stall, stall. Local, cheap, organic, fresh.
Come on down to salamanca. Hobart town. Small and sweet.

Jack of all trades, master of none.
A famous critique of shakespeare that has outlasted the critic.
“every man has to cut some thing” – Bob Dylan
Paul Kelly recycles this line; when talking in song about Donald Bradman.
He turns a word there like nobody’s business. All masters.

Novels. Books. Literature. Writing. Prose. Poetry. Verse. Scripts, scrolls, scribbles and drafts. Jots and plots and who’s and what’s. How. And Ho. Lo and behold. Paperback. Hardback. Dog-ears and folds. Ebooks and glasses. Sat, studied in classes. Written on plasters. To shakespearean masters. Greedy speedy read-y. Steady, heady, ready. Write left to right, right you are. Easter or western or further afar.

After you’re done, lend me the first. I’ll never return nor read it, forget that series. I’m the first book collector. To answer your queries. My shelves are laden, all them unread. I’m better than the wheel, and greater than sliced bread. I’m the pizza cutter. Far more advanced. I steal your beginning. The stuff “may well, never have existed”. Just look at the space. One empty spot, le premiere of waste.

An now you know, the one wish never come true. “To have ever existed is not a fault as much as its true”.

-Fore life, life can be pain.

Fiction (first invention?)
Non-Fiction (how is there not a better word for this).
Which was invented/written first I wonder.

Novel With No Title:

“There’s cum on the walls”
“That, there, its cum”
“That is cum on the wall”
Her colour was rising. He’d asked her earlier if she was wearing makeup and she’d said no.
“You look red”
And then hastily, “In this light I think, perhaps”
One small breath of frustration escaping out his eyeballs.
He wondered at that as he stared at the walls with a blank faced apprehension.

“I didn’t…
I mean who’s is it, not mine”
“How’d it get here? Who the hell!”

“Ghastly darling” he said weakly with an upturned grimace cum smile.

“Might I ask how you know?” His smile turned more genuine.

She walked out, fists clenched by her side.
Shaking his head gently to her turned back he caught sight of her ponytail shuddering with rage.
“No fury, a woman scorned” He exhaled softly.

Pots and pans. Anything sharp. That dish rack was surely first to be upturned and thrown across the grim kitchen floor.
“That’ll make it better”

Batten down the hatches, a gale was about to take full flight within the quiet confines of 32 Boteuille Street. Nobody was home. Nobody in their right mind.

He slicked his finger through the patch on the wall.
“Mmh, tastes cummy” he mused.
“weird” he said to himself, eyes lit up with glee. Glassy almost.
“Weeeeeeeeeeee-yd”

The crashing hadn’t started. She must be shaking still.
Then the pom-pom-pom beating fists on the cement walls began.

“ah-hah”
“cum on the walls Watson, what do you make of it ol’ chum”
He looked to his left and jumped when he saw no-one. Quickly he turned to his right. Then a complete circle. Alone in the room.

He stuck out his tongue.
“haaaaaaayah taaaaaaa han-ha-haaaa”

He licked his cracked lips.
Sniffed back the drops of snot threatening to roll continuously down his nose. They’d have won over him and rejoice indeed if they hit the floor at his feet and he wouldn’t have it. Not today.
While rubbing his thumb, middle and index together he looked for clues.
“Furtively now, look, look, look”
Tongue now back in his mouth “and functioning perfectly” –
Well I wouldn’t say perfectly
“Well I would say it, and did”

He looked up at the roof in the room.
“No i’m not”

Well he did, for a second, he WAS looking around furtively after all. He was diligent, and thorough to say the least.
“To say the least!”

“What?”
The drumming stopped from the other room.

“damn you man”
That’s what you get if you try to be the narrator. When she returns I want you to have solved this case detective.

“Keep banging on the walls darling, its helping me think, but leave the plates alone would you. Lunch later you know”
The plates could be heard moments later hurling across the room. The drumming on the walls started again.
He felt the beat. He got to thinking…

“Poor girl will be black and blue by the end of this, can’t you give her something else?”
Another role?
“yes a roll”
No.
The drumming stopped.
“thanky..”Only to start again with greater force and renewed frenzy.

“Maybe if you let me think back?”
“yes, yes think back, let me think about the day before please. Ah Mr. Sir. Yes if we go back she’ll be ok, and i’ll solve this for us”

That moment freezes.

Like glass cracking. A chill on the nose hairs. Arm hairs rigid. Toe curling cold. Nothing moved.
“gulp”
Almost nothing moved.
She stood, one hand poised ready to rain down another fury filled, bruised fist on the unmoving wall.
He sat on the foot of her bed, eyes still furtively looking, as if to prove a point. The snot of his nose the only thing un-frozen.
A drip fell between his knees onto and between the floorboards.
“gulp”
It was disgusting.

The moment began to change, hazy at first. Then the wobble like water on a polaroid photo. Blotting out with white and grey. Was it clouds. The cold from the room?
Character’s smudging. Greying with the growing fog, steam or… something.

My wants are trumped
Your needs are the scissors to my paper.
My time alone, is your fidgeting.
Your alone time, is my suffering.

Do as you want.
Make a list of things I love.
And give them priority how you see fit.
Look at yourself;
You are beautiful,
Beautiful on the outside.

You.
YOU.
Please address your alone time.
Your thoughts.
Needs and wants.
I should be flattered. I feel its always me-
but it should not be.
I can’t go on like this. Something,
Some thing. Has to give.
And I can’t keep giving.

My runny nose,
A tell tale sign.
Sigh, sigh sigh.
I try, tried with you tonight.
Don’t I go to enough effort?
Could I do more. give give give give give?

“I’m communicating”
-Great. Now I can see you needy you are.
Now I can see what your wants are,
Your effects on me, if you had your way would have me useless,
timestarved. We’d sit there, doing nothing, talking about nothing.
Tired from our night of rubbing up against one another.

Afraid that if we part, or sleep or leave eachother’s company the world would end.

I can’t accept that.
I don’t want that.
I’ve been there.
I need space.
I need rest. I’m sick, i’m sick i’m sick.

I hear what you are saying.
I don’t know why you can’t sleep alone.
You are needy.
Clingy.
Needy needy needy.
HIGH MAINTENANCE.
You’re the fridge with the bad rating.
The energy usage is all wrong.
And you don’t even keep cool.

When I close the door,
the light comes on-
On my phone.
“I miss you”
Well you didn’t seem to be enjoying my company.
And you said all the wrong things.

You need practice in my company.
I’m afraid of hurting you-
you, don’t think I don’t care.
Its not that.
Not that at all.

But,
there is always a but.
And a butt. Three butts tonight.
The butt of the story.
The joke, is on me.
Because I can’t sleep.
Grinding my teeth.

We share,
insomnia?
Hardly. Just a tight jaw and a head full of words and
more.
More things to think though,
as I think of you.
more.
more and more,

Abc
Abs
Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
And my abs stronger.
Spelling.
A.B.S
Another bad sleep.
Spaces. to fill. Time, gaps. Pages, chapters.
Of my life.
Life, finding out what makes others tick.

That’s what I say.
My goal. But i’m learning, sitting quietly.
Important thoughts will bubble to the surface.
The things you ask and share,
determined by how many walnuts and how much chocolate soy milk you have drunk that day. The quality of your fuel denoting the quality and the extremity to which you indulge and pursue – peruse conversation.

The difference, between conversation and talk.
I don’t know. What’s more important. Which spurs which.
Who decides? Can we get a dictionary out? Our phones… i mean.

When is Speigel Tent opening?
Who wants icecream?
What’s going on this month?
-Any short term goals?
In the afternoon?
“no the evening”

Aren’t they interchangeable for the most part…

I ASKED YOU WHEN YOU USUALLY FINISH WORK AND YOU DIDN’T GIVE ME AN ANSWER BUT THEN PULLED ME UP ON 6PM BEING EVENING AND NOT AFTERNOON. GOODNIGHT.

Your life,
The choices you make.
They follow a taught rope.

Sometimes I feel fear.
Anxiety. Shuddering.
Paralysis. Realisation. How I am choosing-
to live.
Pages, chapters, years.
Wants, needs. Worth(while)
REAL. I make them all up.
I give point, I give reason,
By spending my time.
My life force, my energy.

Life- your linear life.
A tightrope.
A tightly strung rope.
From A to B it is held.

When the anxiety strikes,
I feel like I see my end;
I understand that my choices NOW-
Are leading me onward towards “THERE”-
The FUTURE, THEN.
This will happen,
THEN, that,
THEN, that,
Then that…
If I make this decision,
different, a different decision.
A change here. One that… changes that.
THEN,
*and it feels like something is sawing*
Sawing at my rope.
A serrated knife,
cutting into line.
My life-line.
My rope.
The obvious choices.
The straight line of my future.
Cutting.
My world shakes.
The backlash if there is a break.
Snapping. Recoiling.
The dissolution
The drop, crack, flop.

A flop, like a joke that doesn’t hit home.
That just isn’t funny.
To kid.
To pretend.
To say you want something and not really.
To explore and evil side of yourself with sarcasm in mind.
To pretend. TO PRETEND to JOKE TO NOT MEAN IT.
FLOP.

My world shudders.
I am anxious.
My future,
I recoil.
Decisions. Tight.
Tense.
Sawing.
Shaking,
Shuddering,
splitting,
snapping.

And it all changes.
The clouds break.
The sun shower,
Everyone is soaked,
Sweat, from the run for cover combines with the thunderstorms heavy dump.

A dump.
A steaming,
Streaming
dreaming

pool of dump.
Piss and shit.

My scratchy eyes,
The fence, my urine has dissolved you.
My piss is acid.
However dilute.

And sharing this
I break the red pact.
The button – ‘mute’
dispute? Compute?
Doubtful.

But its written.
The discussion with myself
My mind. WRITE or FORGET.
Writing is my answer to a floored,
Flawed memory.

Falling from the tightrope.
Coils, resting peacefully like feathers.

Young peacock.
May your colours never fade.
Happy Valentines day.

Hight Maintenance.

“one more of those and she’s done” – Jon Foley-Donoghue.

to does, it really does. Feel like weeks.
Coming home tonight and thinking to myself, word document or notepad, pat, diary? Oh yeah a new diary. But writing it down there, you are too lazy to find it again. It just sits next to your bed until the next day, then you fill it in; and move on. Forgetting, forgetting, forgetting.

Toilet philosophy.
every time, standing at the urinal. Any one person with a need, thought or want visits this spot. The spot where we drain. Drain and forget. And think.
I think a lot in the bathroom. Or atleast I feel I do.
New thoughts, overthoughts, weird and wonderful.

“do you ever wonder where we all go after dinner”
“the go home, alone by whatever means their mood”
and they cry. They cry because they are dying and even in someones arms,
With the surgeon clutching your beating heart. You die. Alone.

The energy ran flat.
that beautiful blonde. Bombshell.
Will deflected that wonderful young lady.
Hugo porking in the park.
Hidden shhh

my ride home.
what were those fruit.
My food choices. Ripples though me. But on what molecular level.

Can these basic models be taught to me,
Can I understand more? Is it so simple? Is it maths?

what can my choices, decisions and actions do?
Is it possible to trace what I do?
Will someone see that bottle of wine?
Later down the track, history’s echo?

Take off those high heels. Straight out the door,
of society. You poor girl. Fake it.
Fake it tonight, walk walk walk.
But yeah, fake it.
we all are don’t worry.
Don’t worry you aren’t.

Ask police questions.
“aren’t I O.K?”
“Can’t a man walk by himself in peace?”
questions that answer themselves.

standing around in a bar, looking looking.
Action!

the one goal.
Mobius renovations.
Missed it.
DJ going.

Red
Red.
Water.

Peanuts!

Can you trace my movements like those in the snow?
Can’t you even see atoms?
With my yoga stance head well and truly up my medicinally minded be-hind.

Do you recall the way that molecular structure turned..
turned… and went, like so. Do you rememeber? No

Like me, and my actions.
Film? For how long. Written down? HOW LONG.
Degredations. Dust.
All will be dust.
Spend some time, tucked away in that corener, live it breathe it become friends and mortal enemies. Clean, dirty, the path. the stones underneath your seat. Where you are sat. The mood, the feelings that take you. As stars, wheel over head. And the brightest endures, just stands alone. Twinkling.

THOSE those feelings, that you get, flowing thought you. The ebb.
That’s not you, not coming from you. The ground, that spot. The mood.
your present

HEADACHE. just then. .Stwang. Agg,. I’ll live. HAhaha
Hi maddy.
Luke? that guys.
Liam.
LUKE LIAM. Names names names.
Smiles. Grins loud noises.
Good to see you anyway. Always got time for you and your gang.
Big big love.
There he was working at the what. The grocery store?
Holding two pineapples?
I mean shit. There he is, selling the fuck outta that place.
He’s a hospitality king. Sam. Gem.

So you can’t trace your movements. Free. Petty theft.
Free. Unwatched. Drones?
moans.

Massage
yoga.
Spines, teaching water hot fit dance dance boogie like you just wanted to wombatlike old times with old gangs witness full of dance life and lights squinting hats off boat shoes kicking coats unbuckled dropletts forming creases creaks knees and arms swinging waving wildly awesome colours squint giggle chuckle laugh even. Mean it! And dance, spin and link arms if you please. Miss that girl in the big boots that isn’t there and just feel the flow, the base the only cactus in the room with its arms up. Everyone else slouched over a chain or table. Drinks on me. Said the floor. Lets laugh and admitt we’re all here wasting time. Gleefully.
I’m an artist I owe it too myself to learn music. Where do you draw the line. I’d like to get involved in all of these. I might become a teacher. Noble enough practice. Not in Australia, no travelling with that. You haven’t committed enough. BECOME A TEACHER. or just become learnered. Leant, learned, leant, leaned upon. I know knot. Scream and shout.
Shakespeare? Really do you think I could do that. What happens when terror grips you? How will the mood GRIP you. The gripper. I can be coaxed. I freely say. And it kills me. Why did I say that. Why did I do that. Why why why.
Are there more people in the world than there are in the english language?
How about English speakers vs the words in the language of english.

Maybe if we all shout one word we’ll come up with a fun answer to this life.
If there are more people, maybe there will be overlapp and the important people and the sentance, following the one true pattern, the lights, will lead us there. To understanding, ultimate. don’t end arguments in ultimates.
sorry.

If there are more words than people, lets keep having children to fill the words, create a new name. Reflect the current times.
Dig the moment.
Be aware that any negative thoughts spur from the grey area of your mind that is boredom or want for something.
Unless you find yourself asking “why did they do that”
“why did it say that”

Then you are in my clear.

“IF YOU SPEAK TOO MUCH YOU ARE AN IDIOT”. – Russian Lady.

Life advice. Life lie life life life life.
Apply it all over. Exam life, cram life. Live life,
function however you please. Treat others kindly. Have a great time.
meet beautiful people. Cause trouble. Havoc
Get your troop out there and be Jack.
Kerouac
NOT PHIL
NOT DOUG.
What was his name.
Keeeeeeaaaaaaaerouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuwwwwwwack

Neil Cassedy. I will follow your story.
Beat as hell, park your car. Lets have a good time.

My legs hurt.
Why? I flew from Tasmania to Sydney, to Cairns to Melbourne to Hobart. In 12 days. The distance has seeped in. Unreal distances to have travelled. Planes. Plain easy.

My head is cloudy.
I’m off coffee, i’m flat.
Family is a hurt. A poorly stitched wound.
My girlfriend is off, coloured by her best chilhood friend hanging himself. How can I respond, feel or react.
“Let’s make the best of a bad thing”
What? What would they have wanted.
The suicidal, the selfish.
The violence against ones ego. “Self”
Punishment to the extreme.
Its innate, a viewpoint. Your own life,
How could this blessing be such a rapid for you.
Must you come to a close so soon?
The comedy begins before your character dies.
Before the curtain comes down, like a guillotine.

Hush. You are gone,
Over. Your action is our memory.
What about valentines day?
Its over, move on.
What about the suicide?
What do I fucking say, think, or do about that?!

Cry to that song.
I’ll laugh.
Hysteria bubbling away.
Eating away inside me.
The dancing.
Such disorder; drinking myself brain dead.
The pain,
Recklessly pounding around inside me.
When can I say: -Phew- its over.
Close one. Such malcontent.
The pain should stay or go.
Sick around?
Drink it away.

What will i feel in the morning?

A perfect finish to my cousin catchup.
Met Therese, the home owning, religious lover of chris.
Christopholis.
Christ.
On the last day, climbed a hill, red arrow walk- through a bamboo forest. We looked out over the airport. t had a coffee. She was buzzing.
“Breathing helps lose weight”- fasciniating. Please don’t go on.

Went to the local outdoor pool. Amazing, favourite sorta thing.
“Makes me want to play the bongo drums”

The falls the day before,
Home made booze,
Saw an eel,
Did some cliff jumping,
Talked waaaay too much.

Driving around was easy.
Got the worst massage of my entire life.
Valentines day tomorrow; gotta suss it out.
BIANCA Paine’s birthday as well,
The run ROC challenge, should. Be good, just need footwear.
And St Kilda Fest! Rad.
Back in my home town.
Excited

Well! How are ya?
Yeah well.
You?
Well, Quite well.
Well enough.
Just well?
Well… Yeah.
Well then.
Yes. Well.
Which well, a deep well?
A dry well.
Well.
Well, well.

How’s the weather?
Its good depending on whether the weather you weather on a daily basis is what you’re used to.
Its a perspective question.
Whether or not its warm or hot in store-
comes down to what you’ve felt before.

Its warm in the shallows,
If you get deep its cold.
Its a metaphor for my love.

Hateful 8- domergu.
Novel character.

The word veneration. Resounding.

Lemming-ton. As the choc-coconut jumps off the cliff.

The 6 best doctors:
Sleep
Sunshine
Food
Water
Exercise
Laughter

Carr-art. Whiteboard. Flippy chart. Carrot on a stick, for writing with.

“Hey babe. Meet up later for that dried piece of fruit?”
Date…

“QUITE SOMETHING” – strange expression.

Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes let’s.

Speaking in prose.
Take it away
Take it away
I burnt my tongue
No more taste for today.

I made flatwhite yesterday… Simple.
Just doing something simple like making coffee.
Not proper coffee.
-I watch that cunt recoil. Realise what he’s said. Backpeddle. Suddenly aware of himself, running his mouth. Being an idiot, unappreciative. Foolish.
“oh, blend 43. Nescafe”.
-Too late; you’ve hurt my feelings.
Why am I so tender. My exterior is unphased, but they pick up the organic hatred. My tendrils, my awareness, the recognition, though I don’t stop looking-ing onwards, past all of them.
Why did he say that.
His brain let him down. It let me down. He wasn’t thinking. Just running his mouth, we all do that.
So the sting, truly was something else. Something I was obviously feeling/thinking before that moment.
All these people, their lack of understanding and puss-appreciation has made me feel shallow, worthless and a gimmick. What is the point of what I’m doing, is it unique? Not so much. Does it make me feel alive? Or special? Not recently.
have I met new and exciting people. THe conversations stimulating. Nay.

Strange that it should be brought up in my life? (not really). Coffee is a common THING. here, there, everywhere. Stop bring so fucking precious.

What would you say to mum?
Stay with her?Cramp her style, the slimy introverted hermit.
The idiot genius.
Drinking? That’ll kill you. Spotted liver, Quincy jones won’t let that bubble of logic put a lid on this course [of logic]. The healthy roll of fat that I’ve earnt, earned from a lifestyle befitting my house. Charmed. Chin-ups occasionally. But rarely do I raise above the level. This truism stands for all. Out calling. The mantle of humanity, our humility. Him hum hum hummmmmmm. Me A Shingles. The thing, thong passed on. Fabric of speech is stretched and misunderstood. The lack of control Outside our ow, sometimes unfamiliar bodies. Movements uncontrolled. Whip that boy. Let me do up that button for you. The lack of precision in my nimble fingers. The gal ability- fallibility of it all! Spelling, fingers, vocab, auto-correct, send, undo, grammar, perfect speech and cover-station. Convo. For what? -The train story-
Caboose.
This is all your misunderstanding of my perfect.
PerfectWHAT!

Mum, your drinking will kill you.
Your mindset.
Does what you do, make you happy?
Will it make you live longer?
Do you fear the train, of thought?
Drink, smoke.
Fair is fair.
Whole some
Whole
Hole.

I just wanted to blow off steam.
Smoke coming out of my ears.
Chugga-chug-chug.

If looks could kill.
I’d look.
and look and look.

Dumb thought: The relationship you have with your parents can only be had by “you”.
Everyone is different.
-mind you (but) your insights are unique & different – child.

Only kids know how their parents truly are at home.

How can humanity be a final form.
Our minds, our vocabulary are limited. Our focus; incapable of numerous vasteties of the universe. (so you believe in the universe?) I believe in the stars!

What’s the benefit of leaving behind a mantle of success?
Is it possible in life to sow more than you reap?

So what? Sow life.
“All tattoos are the same”

Cab we all try to distinguish ourselves from eachother, please.
Explore our unique-ness. The niceties and our ignorances. *ignorences-spelling.

Don’t look dogs in the eye. It means you are threatening. Dominant.
With cats it means you are aware and submissive.
Weird.

Share your observations and truisms. Re-live your day babe.
Tell me what you did and saw, all your senses. IN FACT.
State them, as clearly or poetically as you can. I want to hear you say it; like it were true.
Are lies another reality?
Are your topic changes worthwhile?

Her vagina was cavernous.
Like throwing a tic-tac down a hallway.
Like dipping a biscuit in hot tea.
Like dropping a goldfish by the tail, into a pond.
“Boep-Boep”.

Its great that you can go to sleep in a bad mood and wake up feeling great.
Waking up, remembering something important and being resolute can be difficult.

A kiss, an offhand statement. What resonates can be anything.

After laughing-
Her to me: “People ask me why I like you”
Her to me: “And that was it. That moment”

What a strange comment I thought. Though, it was a compliment. The more I think about it the more self aware I became and the less I felt like that was a relationship scuttling thing to say. (I have an entire santa sack of those, but I hold others in higher regard).

Note: THEKETTLEISUNPLUGGED

Your vocab-
is telling.

Question: Does being a homosexual make you feel happy?

Thought: You can only take photos of the past.