The new chapter of my life begins today.
And the weather woman dictates rain. I wave to the familiar people as I leave the studio. I say nothing, a simple gesture. I have no wants, needs or expectations of them, of you. I give my weak, broken smile to you all across the room.
Ready for another humble day, free to do as I please. Active and middling.
Coffee and eggs. An apricot.

Its been a distressing start to the year. With my mother passing away suddenly yet peacefully, i’m assured I can only now after three weeks begin to breathe.
My mind has been dormant, healing.
Fractured. My heart and mind, mimic and mourn what otherwise I feel should have been. Something that was precious, was from me taken. And I wasn’t even there.
I am wracked with guilt and anger. Lost again, and only just now trying my legs at walking towards a path that may bring about healing. To occupy my being.
To rejuvenate and replenish against the trauma, and barren desolation that swept through my life. How fragile. So like jelly. This arrowhead has embedded itself.
I see inside myself and worry about nothing else.
Knowing that ultimately its I that can be the only one to reach in, acknowledging the pain and remove it. Nothing here needs to be pushed through, the procedure is foreign as I wish it always stayed.
I believed myself armoured against all of this. But my casing was soft where I attribute love. I value family, I prize the caring company, my upbringing. The selfless acts that bore my flesh as both blessing and curse into this world.
And I will always hold this inside myself.
The good and the bad. And I will flow like water. Unknown toxicity, a risk to bear for all. To threaten one it to threaten all.
More and more, deeper and deeper the head penetrates.
My own mind rattles. Body weak. Heart pumping at a lost cause.
But my exterior endures. I will hold this, like all other things. For the time being in my hands, slowly my self-embrace, won’t be necessary. My arms by my side, process having passed I’ll be able, wizened to help, advise and guide others. And this I look forward to. To being the cynic and wise man. But now I bleed and seethe.
But my direction is coming clearer now.
The mist parts. The people lose their question-mark heads.
And I will explain and hug freely.
Give love and exclaim.
Direction again at last!
Out of mystery,
Welcome mastery.

The challenge has been and will always be to write my brain.
Write my brain in the here and now. Accurately.

Predating language is sensation and emotional feeling. So when you think to yourself you think in words, but before even that; sometimes your thoughts permeate as feelings only. As tangible as colours, you sense. React and wonder in an inexplainable way.

“Are you right?”
-Yes, but i’d rather be left… alone.

“THE QUANGLE WANGLE’S HAT”

Guy’s name in bottleshop: Malcom.

Claire – Fringe actress.

I experienced an emotional rent today.
An feeling that ran through me.
As my feet beat a path along the rivulet track,
gravel scuffing and sliding and grinding under the tread of my trainers.
I came to the water reservoir by cascade and an opening occurred.
From my memory to my senses. A sudden ghost, dormant was awakened.
Unwanted sensitivity brushed over my nerves and made me frown.
Cringing away from this turbulent internal swirl I ran on with renewed vigor.
My agitation set my brow to more of a furrow as a scowl took over my lips. By chest beat a heavy rhythm and my right lung asked questions of me.

I have thought a lot while running, and forgotten more.
If I could,
If I had the heart i’d run with pen and paper in my hands.
Just to capture the many strands
Ideas of would and should.
Good and bad wonderings and wishes.
Why did mum always do the dishes.
Where are all the well-wishers?

How long will this last.
Why do I wear this mask.
Peace I know, is too much to ask.
Pucker up, remember your task.
Put down your flask.
Summers sun bask.
Tomorrow you can set sail, fly the mast.

One memory per day.
That’s all you have to do.
Before bed.
After work.
Don’t get caught up cooking dinner or anything silly like that.
No time for gravy or roasts.
Food is fuel and there is so much more to life once you’ve nailed the basics.
The dutch way, throw it all in a pot and cook it.
Maybe that’s Indian.
I’m not to know. I should really check out India.
India and New Zealand.
Someboy stole my shoes.
Somebody.
Anybody.
Let me rage, my knee a hinderance? I wonder.
YOGA. Every day. A retreat, that would be nice wouldn’t it.
Some day, some time, just to relax, get in touch with my internal self.
Flex my mind, stretch my body. Sweat and move and think and flex and move and stretch and meet people and share myself. And smile, even if behind that smile is a cracked visage. A broken plate, a fractured windscreen. A decree dropped in a blender. A writ for my own arrest. A warrant for my own poison. A smile that’s fettered with the memory of loss. My rancor, hidden in the bog of my mind. Submerged. Boiling with want, lusting to be let loose on earth. Saved for a rainy day. When the bog swells and the unnatural groans can spread wildly from its ordinarily quiet shores.
And the maw, clean and dark. Teeth brushed, shining bright. Emanating like some sick nuclear disaster. Pulsing, perfect glinting whiteness. Gilded with stress lines. Strong and hypnotizing. Fascinating, reptilian fang. Sharp and frozen. Undesirable wants. Conflicted. Self-satisfied suffering.
Breathing heavily.
Thumbs up to another jogger, smiling in every way but my eyes.
They are the pits of elsewhere. A gargantuan, otherworldly mention.
Flies do not fly.
Apples do not fall.
Canines tails drop to the floor.
And my eye look out among.
Eyebrows quiver.
Like minded, my gaze like arrows pierce my surroundings.
Look. Look obtuse. Pointed, angry.
If a flame could leap from a gaze, then the thatch of the world would burn.
Mirrors show no cool reflection. I must divert or feel myself stirred to an unwanted fire. Cinder and snow, showing past the toothy grin spreading from gums and lips.
So false, blood could erupt from my every pore.
Gasoline smell, a clicking of teeth, the sparking of a match.
My frail structure of triangles, no bridge could hold the weight on my shoulders, no provide a girder over this void in space.
A maw that opens up and takes all.
Nothing is chewed, there is only peace and darkness.
My eyes, satellited that beam nothingness into reality.
My open mouth, sobbing, gasping breaths would devour all if it weren’t for my teeth.
My bright-white teeth. Stronger than bone or gaolers arms.
Imprisoning the darkness withing. Smiling wide, undented bars;
Holding behind them, the depths of all that I hold dear.
My sacred suffering, my hangups that eat away and torture me.
Wracked and seething, flooding my eyes.
The lids would boil if not for my tears.
Hot streaks of the salted oceans. Infinite shards of rock and broken glass.
A crayon within me breaks each day as the spectrum of my colourful nature shudders and bakes in the foil of my being.
I will never be stuffed. I am not an apple.
There is no sugar, no syrup of life.
Where once I was a grape, to have escaped being peeled, only to have dried up in the heat of my own angers. My mirror gaze, the loss of tears, dried up.
Resembling rat shit, I am a raisin.
Foiled by my own thinkings. My eighty percent, evaporated.
Yes, my father would be proud.
To have lived to see all of my friends die.
To have succummed to drag.
Whence once was fabulous, now all is unreal and I am something that I am not.
Cordial sweet, but waterless.
Bastard is my base, and memories fade.
Close my eyes to bring about the death of the day.
We all deal with this tragedy, grief in our own way.
“Its OK” “It happens”.

I haven’t sat and thought.
I never stopped and wondered.
Each new year I sit, I dread.
I think and dream.
Remember.
I look for solid words to put with my year.
Music thumps towards my ears and I-
I remember.
It saddens me. Make me cry.
Reflections morose, stoic and melancholy.
I think of my choices, and wonder why.
And realize it was mostly folly.

This year was different.
Shivering and fearful.
Spending time with my sister;
Beyond what I had planned.
Afraid and jittery, tears rolling.
Her head lolling.
My arms in a cross over her prone and vomiting figure.
As she rocked and rolled, crying and confused her way into twentyseventeen.
I shook with fury. Teeth gritting and pain surging through my temples and out of my eyes. Out, out, out into the world.
And so I do not make contact with people, I look away-
I stare off into the middle space, seeking a healthy distance.
Despondent and peaceful to the outward observer.
Beneath I seethe.
I hide deep inside myself.
I am strong for others until my time comes to crack.
A full unveiling. A violent fury, that engulfs any material that comes into contact.
I will be wreckful.
There will be havoc and danger.
A whirl of the wind will die away in my presence.
Cool and grim.
Heavy like gold, stubborn as mucus.

And this time of year, the energy of others.
What are you doing.
And i’m so scattered.
My wish is to be alone.
I need to hide, such a strong network of people. Demanding entertainment.
Ideas and missions of all kinds.
Its horrible, heinous.
I am divided.
Scattered to stupidity.
And my wants fragment.
My hypocritic, monkey brain. Fractures of binary.
I say yes when I should say no.
I say yes when I have made other plans.
I say yes to challenge myself.
I say yes to make myself busy.
To make things difficult.
To double book.
To experience ritual death-
Free time, apologize, offer up nice thoughts.
Consolidate. Mourn. Time’s passing and I-
I just wait and waffle and feel the need to move.
Move yet frozen in a haze of lazy nothingness.
A perfect cube of ice with me inside.
Numb and unreflecting. Pushed from the summit of some great mountain.
Past the tower, where men and women cry out.
Every jealous language under the son rattles around the valley.
It resonates as a hum, like furious bees attacking paper thin walls.
Babes cry out, and their language of discovery, fear, hunger and exhaustion reek of the basic human connections. Signifying nothing but the reduction of our race as it continuously reforms and resets.
Good ideas and frail wants grow with language and baby steps of the many skinned locust. Rubbing together, itching legs in the muds of eternity.
But time will tell through a gentle breeze;
Easing itself gently between you and you loved ones.
This change, ongoing, spinning beyond your control.
Farther out-there than your perspective.
And the sickness that sets in with this knowledge.
The skeptisism, and vomiting when you spin as your surroundings.
When you are full.
The fuel of your own downfall.
And you pass it on, like the disgusting downtrodden dollar bill of the Americas.
You pass it on though its valued just the same.
The overall worth changes.
Ripples of greeds, of wants.
Flux. Unfixable until death did us part.
Timeliness, and flowers.
Cheap hacks of significance.
Functioning to remedy and show the fickle nature of life.
The expenses of each breath-
of comfort. The grains of wood scratch and spliter you.
Eternity has not worn this table top down.
No number of elephants scratching themselves of a tingle could rub smooth this surface.
Like the pills mother used to leave by the bench.
Unswallowable. Iron, zinc, vitamins and rainbows of nonsense.
Placebo, and the matter of ones mind.
The aging of one’s skin.
The forgetfulness of our mind.
The anger of your jawline.
The jowls of comfort.
The absent minded chomping down.
The snort and snore.
Slurping and gulping and hiding and crying.
So fragile, so resplendent in a few days of exercise.
A lifestyle, hard fought. Tanned and toned and that I envy.

You pretended to yourself that you organised things.
You hurt me beyond the grave.
You hid from the photography.
In solitude you escaped so many things.
In this sacred hermitude you reveled and revealed your artistic function.
Playing a role, eating and sleeping unrestful and ill.
But a void you did fill,
occupy with safety and love.
So much of that, which my heart would not have otherwise.
The late nights, static charging over my eyes.
Black and white with exhaustion.
Colour burnt from my retina.
Recognition and definition mingling.
Strange feelings of cold and cloud.
A mist of grey, that voidless space. Filled with nothing.
Not asking anything of emotional toil or reaction.
Just flat. Flabbergasted grey.
Not hot. A mystery of negative space.
Reviled by boatsmen.
Hearders and flock.
And we, all of us experience it.
Our bones, refrigerated. Once clean-
one defined cut.
A bleep, somewhere out there.
No true north.
Magnets eat away at our hearts.
Lungs lost to pneumonia.
Fear bespoke. Untimely, lifesupport and a haze of hateful memories.
Abortion and life.
The thin red line for everyone to read into and acknowledge.
Go out there with an energy and zest.
Or be like my english father says:
The English grew cunty.
Separated, exasperated, depressed and un-loving.
And our material worth grows.
From day one.
The ham wallet of our parental, familial bond.
The blue eyes and blonde hair of my childhood.
The snippets, cutout and scrapbooks.
They disintergrate, parting in shreds.
A heart. Red, pulsing, made out of glass.
Dropped!
And its as if in a film,
slow motion, shattering.
the whirl of the celestial being.
The nod of the planets.
And catastrophic arm of gravity.
Catapulting god and misunderstanding into our stagnant, forgetful pond.
We question the fiber of each shard.
The breakoffs,
tangents of lost times and ideas.
Our influence fades with the grip of our ageing hands.
Fettered, flaking skin.
Pockered cheeks.
Sunken eyes.
Breath of vinegar and mustard.
Salt crusted lips.
Lathered calved, knees of gold prepare us for one final jump.
Jump on plunge.
We may at any time suffocate;
drowning as I did this night gone.
We stood above the crowd.
I thought to spit.
A young woman smuggled into the auditorium upstairs,
to celebrate a birthday.
To drink under age! Such a rush I felt in this dreamstate.
Cheese dreams perhaps -dairy digestion-
But I felt attractions.
Two women.
One with amber hair. Bejeweled.
Glass of riches. My eyes screwed deep into the substance of their reality.
Impenetrable, perfection. Height of riches.
Emerald could have been here name as she wore, almost black sapphires that glittered under the chandelier.
My heart raced for her desires.
I envied those that would court her.
Then to my alarm, I awoke and sprung from bed.
As waking at a time specified is a regime that cannot be hindered or helped.
I am here.
The day has begun.
I have done it all wrong.
I fear and fear and fear-
Staying strong for others until my time comes.

That’d be my memory there.
Spread out as a mist in the breeze.
And in the murk other people waft and circle.
That’s what I recognize, and used to see anyway.

Who would have thought. All the material construction that brought about the end of the world, us as super predator could first save a life.
Its the clinging nature of our greed, my lazy and forgetful nature.
How could I forget. I often ask the people that matter most to me if they’ve ever written a message in a bottle. And the answers vary.
I stick to the message. It can sicken them, polluting their minds like the bottle that floats shamelessly through the ocean currents.
Thermohaline “motherliness”, my veins. Ripple and pulse as your spirit erodes.
As I rode home after an enormous day of exertion I contributed waste.
I felt unseemly. Sick and tired, raw and pained.
A half finished bottle of water, so much more to give. I’d run six kilmeters, mostly down hill. Sponsored by Hartz. I’d then been fighting, shadow boxing, kicking with absolute focus. Doing something, keeping busy. Moving, giving back as much energy I had borrowed from the universe.
I pulsed, I ached. My eyes squinted against the midday sun and I wondered at the lateness of the day.
There was a bump as I went over a pot-hold in the road. I was lucky to avoid a snakebite in my tire for its lack of suspension and the surprise that took me.
There was a small thud, my bottle, my Hartz, half filled dropped to the gutter.
It was a hot day, I was in the awkward position of meeting head on traffic with no time to turn.
I left the bottle, and crossed to safely thinking of the currents, pollution and the half hartz that had escaped me. And unfinished journey.
That night I dreamt of the being alone, and I thought nothing of it as I recorded it in my diary the very next morning.
And I didn’t think.
It was all going to be connected by the currents.
And the layers.
And all the wings.
Touching all the far shores.
And no matter where I journeyed that which separated me from what I knew to be true, was far less than what connected us and made us all the same without homogenizing.

A hear passed, I was present more that I had been in years. I gave so much freely.
There was danger in the alley ways and I’d taken the advice of my father to only call one person friend and she was elsewhere with her husband. Wisely choose, always wear sunscreen. Follow the summer. Meditate when you feel. What it means to be alive, meaningful(ness) is different to everyone. If you wish to deconstruct, so be it. If you wish to complicate and enshroud yourself in meaning that you and everyone else must unravel your failure is a shroud that you will wear as a coat for winter, a veil for weddings and cask for funerals. And the words of thanks, and all that people think will be mist.
The sun will rise, the stars will wobble and Africa can continue its movement north-east towards the european tectonics. And this is where I was to recognize something special. Irrefutable, repeatable and strange.

I was there, stranded of the east coast, stranded on a deserted beach of Zanzibar, dreaming of elephants in ballet slippers and giraffes flying around in handgliders when the most strange thing was to happen and it was witnessed by all the dead, so i’ll let them tell it.

He was there, I recognize that now: my son was sitting there. He did a sand angel. Angel that he was, was what he needed also. Because he was stranded. Clinging to a hatbox from the 70’s. Circular and lines with purple satin. By Jove he was lucky to have not packed heavy books, and it remained airtight. This was after my death, but before the collapse of it all. He was travelling, running I presume – like always.
As far back as I can recall in his teenage years he ran.
Such a wonderfully angry young man. He wore a rose in his lapel and used the horned stalks of the rose as cufflinks. The barbs of his lifetime are what held him together. Prickly reminders from time to time that milked and let blood-let.
He wore a hat, no crown of briars or leaves. Simple and dark, more a cap that reviled him from the posturing minds and eyes of other simpletons. He covered his wavy hair and shaded his nose, sometimes using such a thing as a fan. He was modest, he was laying, dreaming and I floated about him like the cool breeze of the Indian ocean. Where the currents would intermingle. Gales would storm, blowing and raging as abrupt as a sneeze brought on from looking at the sun. Palm trees would bend to breaking point, and the currents would circle. redoubling, back upon themselves, crossing and shifting. Melting, mingling and saturating.
The coast was warm, but the channels and currents ran deep and powerful as arteries that course through the pumping legs of a sprinter.
Great arteries in action, the cadence that smashes into indonesian coasts, ice cold bolts from a malign and mindlessly spinning sphere; scattering islands in a road of waves. To surface, feel the damage and warm. Stagnate and flow back towards Zanzibar, which is where he lay. In my etherous mind -even now he lay.

And in his smiling daydream, a wave washed ashore a bottle. His heart lifted as something clunked against his heel. Refreshing water, and something more than a memory. Hope poked a thump. Nuzzling a bobbling question.
His eyes oped a sliver, to glisten silver in the Zanzibar sun. Tanzania across an impassible channel, where hot sand glowed white hot and water baked and washed itself in waves to keep warm.
The bottle presented itself. And the circus of his mind gathered itself. Blinking twice and sneezing he sat up and rubbed his sore shin. Looking at the bottle he wondered.
Picking it up, he wondered. A precious tear, a Tasmanian pearl, so far from home blinked to his peter pan fashioned trousers. His feet were baked prunes and his hair a mass of curls that threatedned to grown around the meger looking cap.
A sigh escaped his slightly parted lips, revealing teeth that suited his big mouth and straighly lined lips. He shook himself gently.
Did he pray? I don’t think so, as I remember him, I don’t think he prayed.
He rubbed his hands, and touched the bottle to his chin in thought, thoughts of animals forgotten. It would have been normal for him to begin sobbing.
It would have been so normal.
So normal.

Warmest, sincerest, kindest regards.
Returning home to the many things.
All of my little bugs.
Accompanies by the thoughts of Kafka’s big ones.
I read, I write, I wait and I run.
I cant believe my mother is gone.
It seems unreal.
I have dormant feelings.
Lost, fractured pieces of myself have died and await burial.
My memories scattered.
Ashen faced. Distant.
My otherness, removed, afraid and angry.
To have left a great many friends in Canada. To decide to not return, to turn my back on the cold weather that would have so-suited my icy temperament.
I see my brother and sister.
Red faces, larger than life in their emotions.
I can see them stored, suffering sadness.
My exhaustion is three fold.
My tiredness is manifold, as I resort to my recovery manifesto.
And my knee aches as my heart does.
With scars for memory.
Muted, silver grey. And I fear i’ll lose my lunch at the viewing.
It will hit. Hit home.
And I will be full of dread. Full.
Sick with it. Confronted, and torn down.
Wrecked in the storm of conflicting seas.
Where my hot blood of anger rises against my cold removal.
The forgotten tsunami, seen in the tumult that passes beneath unseen.
Waves and a frigid breeze that have clashed within me -everternal.
In this life for me, this occupational flux, where I once stood, now stands a building. Where I was on the ground at gravity’s zero.
Now resides a thing of man-made rock. Not timeless, not indestructible.
Time will turn that stone to sand.
Rubble and ruin, flakes and ashes.
All for the downstream; where I question the nature of the infinity of rocks.
Sand becomes it all where we break down-
Bust and leak, swell and groan.
Our last breaths, before we are washed away.
In a storm, a hell-kite’s memory,
Wind whipped tears.
And you pass on, despite your years.
Too soon, and sick. Afraid and broken.
Memory gone, your own that is.
I tried, I tried I tried.
But I wasn’t there.
And now I feel the turn of my stomach,
The ache of my bones. The swell of my eyes, my heart.
The blister of my lips. The jelly that resides under the lids-
cries in goodbyes as we wade through a forbade farewell.
Something we never gave up hope on, and we resolve as the circle of life.
But your own spiral is the tragedy.
We have named this circular motion of life.
And in the bigger picture we have called it zero.
This resonates oft with me these days.
It brings about a resigned and resolute sigh.
A significant vein has been tapped.
Dripping all it ever once stored.
Its ok to cry.
“Don’t listen to what they say about men crying”.
What a strange woman. What a dastardly character.
The moles on the face. The crop top.
Long lunches, lashes and lost or half formed ideas.
*awwww gawd* I say suffering my circumstance, speaking while sucking in air.
and my airs, like my hairs split.
Choosing to suffer.
Always

Well i’m back in hobart. 5 months early, a semester way off and at the height of summer. Its hot and i’m feeling greasy.
On my flight over, I met a nice girl that made the first leg fly by.
On the second my flight was slow, and stopped in Pheonix.
I read a lot. Then, arriving in LAX, the weather was horrible. The flight was delayed a few hours because we were waiting for a different delayed plane.
The rain was heavy.
We got off the ground in the massive Quantas Bertha.
There was tons of turbulance and a kid half way down the aisles lost his breakfast and most recent snacks. There was drama and an exodus of people.
Terror and recycled air. Just horrible.
The transitions were pretty stream-lined into hobart.
I arrived on time, after talking with some English people on the plane: giving them advice as to where to go for Christmas.
I’m wrecked now, Christmas got me good.
“Anyways” I got home, and we all hugged and ate, there were some pensive silences and I shared my thoughts and some inner working memories.
After we ate we all shared stories. Happy Memories. Then after that we opened presents, there were a few. It was nice.
Shirts, socks, massage, beanie, etc.

Grooving.
Pool and Coup that night, I went for a jog and a run which were cleansing.
Now i’m ruined.

Mira and Mads arrived.
She early,
He right on time.
The rest, higgeldy piggeldy and out of sync.
There was an awkward mood.
Time was spent, wine was made mulled.
Cars were played.
The day was long and strange.
Energy levels up and down.
Billowing, flipping, waving and like the sheets on a bed.
A white flag over the day.
Breaking my back, slapping me on the back.
on my back on the rack.
Sweat, sodden, drained and showered.
The day begun again.
Rebirth. Re-wrecked.

I half packed my bags, much-much a do.
I pinned leaves to my wall as decorations, pulled things down you know…
prepared to leave.
Visited a cafe and drank some tea.
I felt so dry, such a dry face.
Sapped, sucked dry.
Like burnt paper.
Chaffed lips.
Lots of tea, milk and honey.
Scones, jam and chocolate brownie.
All the things to make you jolly.
Then home, change, ice skating with Megan.
A lovely clear eve.
The money is running low.
The time is running short.
I couldn’t concentrate on my school work earlier.
But I can skate backwards-
little by little, showing improvements.
And that’s great, more important.
Savoring those moments.
American Spelling?
My god i’m nervous about my flights. Philadelphia and all that.
It could all go to pants. Really, truly.
My lips are still so dry.

Dinner was skipped once we got back home.
Mira was early.
We talked chit-chat.
Played cards.
Everyone working their angle.
It was funny and nice, I made cheese and apple with sulatanas.
Then we went out to a bar and had a beer.
Smart card games, some of the other housiez lurking around asking questions.
It was nice, but distracting.
Then the bar.
I bought a shares plate, which was sub-standard.
There was the smallest bit of carrot.
So strange.
TZATZ. HUMMUS. olives, pickle, plain flat bread. Standard stuff.
We talked some more, then it was time to leave.
It was long goodbyes, but that shows the worthy-ness, and meaningful relationships that have formed. We cling to each-other in our vulnerability. Times haven’t changed all that much.
Then finally finishing on the weather, the gym, photos, travel plans and snow angels. Jockular German banter.
It was all quite a pleasure.
Home to a light snack and tea;
I couldn’t have asked for a more satisfying day, considering how I felt for the most of it. Really truly lovely.
And plans to meet them all over again.
Recapturing and remaking, reforging and reinstating, initiating and instigating, begging, hoping and wishing. To see each-other again, keep in touch and continue on in the half-light that we are now. Beautiful, helpful, clinging. Friends and family.

I had a dream about football.
Losing 1-0.
I shouted at the coach,
He said I was speaking french.
I complained about my knee,
He spoke of team morale.

I bumped into a woman with dark skin,
I didn’t apologize I just said “It takes two to tango” don’t worry about it.
She threw two 2dollar coins at me.
I picked them up, threw one onto the football field and gave the other to
a young black kid.
I started running home, and was nearly run over by an old man in a tiny black car.
He didn’t indicate he was turning.
I was edgy and angry.

I had a dream that I had cancer,
I met up with an old teacher that had cancer as well.
We consoled eachother.

Today I’ve much to do.
I need to pack my bags, go ice skating study.

Ugh when you have to share to let people know what everything has gone to shit.
And the funeral.
Spending time, a trip cut short.
Study gone wrong.
Hiding from toxic people.
My safety, and happiness compromised.
I don’t feel healthy.
I feel a wreck.
Grumps, edgy tired,
annoyed.
What is the world coming to