don't read this it's absolutely useless and hasn't a single noteable thing to say :: kill this<-- writer

dear blog, i see that we're only friends after 2am. that's really the only time we both with each other. i know about that. it's like the person who's your friend once a day during the train commute home. or, the dude who works next door and who you have a smoko with every afternoon at 3 till 3:15pm. the chick who texts you on Sunday mornings between 1 and 3 'hey gorgeous you still out ;)' aka booty-call. dear blog: are we bootycalls?


*___*___*

CURRENT AURAL-INFECTIONS
I'll Try Anything Once by Julian Casablancas
Tin Man by Future Islands
... And the World Laughs With You (feat Thom Yorke) by Flying Lotus


*___*___*

STUPID THING I PLAN TO DO TOMORROW EVEN THOUGH I SHOULDN'T

buy glasses i don't need with money i don't have.
i have no regrets about this.
tortoise-shell kinda round Ray Bans are a human right. <-- note that ish.


*___*___*

the correct answer to the dilemma you're trying to solve is:

(d) the mouse ran up the chimney pipe.

the correct answer to the dilemma you're trying to solve is:

(d) no answer is correct when the question is incorrect.

the correct answer to the dilemma you're trying to solve is:

(d) the appropriate time to sleep is 3am.

(d) it is not normal to listen to songs on repeat over and over and over again - you are not normal.


*___*___*

i have a found to be unafraid of the future. i'm not sure what it is, but i'm unafraid of the future. i'm pretty sure it's because i have no faith left in life that things will be ok. let me rephrase: i'm half certain things will sooner or later not be ok. the good news is: after things have been not-ok about a dozen times you kinda stop worrying about things being not-ok and you go on getting awesome haircuts and kicking ass at scrabble on words with friends. [PS i'm phatmasterq, hit me up (i'm looking at you Gol and Anjie)].

speaking of which: is it wrong that the only thing i wanna do right now is epically abuse my ADDS meds and lie on the floor staring at the ceiling listening to Animal Collective's remix of Panthu Du Prince's Welt Am Draht? __it's probably bad huh?


*___*___*

after which i'm going to grow older and have a squishy face because even already the skin on my face is loose and baggy i look like a wrinkled dog and my body will start to make odd noises and hum and creak when i u-turn and the left-signal won't work and bending over will hurt like mo-fo:: but then you get that benefit of old age that invincibility where you stop caring about anything because by then you've lived through poverty and peer pressure and your wife hating your guts and your kids being gay and what's worse you not even thinking there's anything wrong with that so that now that you're old you're like yah, i drive slow, eff off and complaining about "modern" music.


*___*___*

[in referring to this]

- i don't understand.
- what don't you understand?
- i don't understand why you're not excited.
- it... uhm..
- no. wait. let me rephrase. what i mean is: i don't understand how you're not soo excited you want to immediately freeze yourself until the very hour the movie opens because you can't bare to be alive and not see it.
- that's a bit extreme.
- thass how i roll.
- what's soo great about it?
- apart from Sofia Coppola is my future wife?
- yes. apart from that.
- it's going to be the best thing i watch this year.
- how do you know?
- you're being negative-nancy. i don't like negative-nancy. you know what you are? i'll tell you. you're half vampire, half giant: VAGIANT.
- ...
- ...
- BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
- BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA


*___*___*

REASONS WHY THIS POST MAKES ABSOLUTELY NO SENSE AT ALL

(1) because neither does its author
(2) adult onset ADD
(3) insomnia
(4) having an unquenchable urge to be elsewhere doing somethingsomethingsomething
(5)

_________...ooh it's my move in scrabble

a serious man : some reflections on law

i sit at the table and before we commence i tell her something about one of my moot problems. 'Re-argue the case of Al-Kateb v The Commonwealth of Australia'. i begin describing the circumstances: a man, made of probably more stuff than i am, but not too much more, flees his home. of course they're chasing him with pitchforks (or whatever newest weapon mankind has found to replace those). gets on a boat seeking a place where he's not going to be killed. makes sense to me. my grandfather did it. he boarded a plane that took off at 8am. he once told me he was covered with sweat the whole 14 hour flight. he said he asked for more water every 3 minutes. the person in the seat besides him leaned away towards the isle. he said he thought he was having a heart attack. some months after he landed he received a letter from his former next-door-apartment neighbour. it said that at 8am, the day and moment the flight took off, he heard a loud banging in the hallway. that he had opened the door and found the Revolutionary Guard, dressed for business and knocking on his door with the butt end of a rifle. they asked the neighbour where is the man who lives here uHogshan Knnaai? and he shrugged. ___my auntie and uncle ran through a desert at night, dodging jeeps with floodlights attached to them. my auntie cries when she tells the part about a baby that was with them that wouldn't stop crying. and how the mother had to smother her daughter. thankfully she doesn't tell that part anymore. now she just starts crying and somehow that fills the room with the scent of it. so here's Mr Al-Kateb. and he arrives and is put in administrative detention until his refugee status is determined. it's not granted.

there's something i always find fascinating by the west: arrogance. why are we soo quick to think that people would readily get up and leave their heritage, their culture, the sound of people speaking their language, their kin and their families and their possessions (humble or otherwise), get on a dubious vessel, risk months upon months at sea, or quick sprints with the imminent fear of bullets and torture and landmines, more months stuck in camps and (my uncle picks up the story and talks about the 2 years they spent in Pakistan waiting for their visa applications to go through, he laughs a little when he recounts his various mischievous exploits) finally : a whole future in a place that makes no sense to you? a whole 'rest of your life' in a place that is not, and never can be home in the way your mother's hug is home.

but we do. we make light of it. as though that adventure of itself, is not evidence that something must be seriously wrong where this man/woman/family/stranger is from. and so, Mr Al-Kateb sits in detention waiting. only that Palestine is not a State to permit his return. Israel's not interested. Kuwait (where he was born) has other worries. the Arab nations do what they always do (get distracted blaming israel and forget to do anything). so. involuntary, indefinite administrative suspension.

i recount this story and i get angry as i tell it. i'm not thinking of my auntie, or my grandfather expressly. but those are the themes of my bones. the things that one doesn't need to think of but that think for themselves inside me. or, that in fact whisper the thoughts that i think into my ears. i don't know - i hope that left to my own common sense i would arrive at the same conclusion : that the situation is simply an anomalous misfortune. and that a minor act of generosity can surmount it. the way you might let a friend stay over because they've locked themselves out. or the way Mar and Courtney let me sleep on their couch for 6 weeks because i'd forgotten where i was from and was too tired to go anywhere else. that sort of thing.

but... i mean, that seems absurd. absurd in the legal sense, in the 'construction of statutes' sense, how could the State legally argue its way around that? i nod. well, the Attorney General stood up before the high court and said 'maybe one day there will be a State of Palestine that will allow him to return. you can never say never'. i wince a little as i say it. she stares back at me dumbfounded. by now the rest of the room has sat down and is listening to us. i'm obviously worked-up. so she smiles: a sincere sort of smile (perhaps a knowing one):
it's good to be angry. law is about anger. i wouldn't be here if i wasn't angry.

which i don't immediately agree with. but which i chew on afterward. a few weeks worth of chewing. and, eventually, i do agree. at least i feel better about planet earth knowing that from time to time you find people not afflicted with apathy. the scourge of our times. the Aids of the west. selfish narcissism and the Hollywood brat mentality. either that or the 'who gives a f*ck, i got my own problems pal' school of mis-philosophy. but here's someone with enough conviction in something to get mad about it. something that has nothing to do with her. a forest in Guatemala or another random no-named stateless who?body stuck in a camp somewhere in the middle of red Australia. disagreement is irrelevant. the point is idealism. ideals. the very having of them. that they are contrary to mine, or yours is besides the point. balances can be struck, compromises reached. by debate and consideration both sides are more clearly illuminated. something more 'equitable' can be gleaned. but having the bother to get mad, that's the necessity.


*___*___*

so i read 106 pages worth of judgments. six of them. quite bipolar. 4:3 decision. and it occurs to me (putting aside our religious stuff) that nowhere on this planet lives a true, stable, equilibrium point for justice. all we have are people who sit in different seats. some are on buses and are cheap vinyl. others are in the high or supreme courts or general assembly rooms of the world. and the people i disagree with now, and who disagree with me, the ignorant and the learned (and those who are learned and still ignorant) and the prejudiced and the biased, and (soo often) rich white men whose grandfathers didn't sweat on planes and who can't understand in the fathomed space of their imaginatoriums what makes someone able to smother their daughter in the desert... these people make the decisions. not always bad people. not always bad decisions. but, sometimes, when a decision most counts, you're stuck with one of them. they made decisions when i was in sixth grade and got sent outside for something i didn't do, and they make them in courts.

the lawyer loses the fight. remember that. but the advocate is the thorn. the rock in the shoe. the disturber of peace. who loses but brings a new case again, and again and again, with the names of different persons, in different positions of vulnerability and forces people to say 'no', and 'no', and 'appeal dismissed, with costs', and 'leave declined' until a more fuller, more complete bastardized notion of (always ever always) elusive justice can be established. debated and debated and pushed around like gradations of shadows. that is my point. merely that somebody push back a little the tide of the ocean, so that at very least there is a potentiality of equipoised principles finding equilibrium.


*___*___*

alas.__ i fear.


*___*___*

i'm not really a fighter myself. i don't take up 'causes' in the way she meant. i like to be of use. i like to be helpful. i'm happy to force dreams through asylum-ward keyholes, back into sunlight.

but i'm no allen shore.

my resume is pretty average.

and i get really nervous sometimes before i present and my mouth gets dry and i'm still terrible at giving appearances (you forgot to say how long we'll each be speaking again! Q... ___don't worry. it's ok. she adds the last part after she seems me get upset).

if the world is in my hands, i need more hands.

EVERY THING S

__Weeping willow won’t you wallow louder
____Werewolf, Coco Rosie










via voodoo magic


but it's not just dreams. it's stories too. and days. it's moments. it's life. it's everything. i'm constantly thinking how'd i get here? __where am i? then noticing someone besides me on the bus.train.lunch table who is this person? only to learn they're a stranger.


*___*___*

IF LIFE WERE A GAME, POSSIBLE AMENDMENTS THAT WOULD MAKE IT BETTER, A LIST:

(1) timeout.
i'm outta breath. i'm bored. i'm tired, i'm over it, i just need to sit here a minute.

(2) phone a friend.
dear boss. dear teacher. dear massive huge unbelievably massive f*ckup, just wait a tick: i need to call my mom.

(3) mid-season trades.
this team sucks. i've done this team for 30-40 years now. i'd like to swap. i think i'll be gay for the rest. or straight. or female. or white. or an explorer. or a street-soul-jazz-busker.

(4) referees.
god: you're alright. best we have anyway. but it's not cool withholding the score till the end. i want someone here now. watching every play. blowing on the whistle and being all 'Yo. Dude, you stole that. not cool. hand it back'. or 'Bitch please, i heard you gossiping - you did start the rumour, you're crap. you lose 40 brownie points. alright, everyone listen up: this loser over here started the rumour. it's not true. Q didn't say that. you can all stop hating him now'. and everyone could be all like 'sweet. thanks ref.'

(5) fairies.
if you don't think it's cool for semi-magical little beings that float and sparkle to exist you're... not cool.

(6) need a hug cards.
i need a hug. it'll be like the little thing on the post-box. you kinda just hold it up like a yellow card in soccer. and whoever next passes you stops. looks at you... oh. you need a hug. you show them your sad face and nod. they hug you. sincerely. and then walk away. if you need another you hold your card up again. if you abuse your rights people call you a hug-junkie and you're no worse off than you are now - we're all hug junkies.

(7) fluorescent lights stop existing.
aesthetics are important.

(8) safety zones.
a shack. hut. red brick edifice. nothing fancy. but with comfortable quilts and a heater and a fridge with some basic necessities. a shower. and you could just... you know, take a time out from your life of starvation and genocide and relentless text messages and twitpics and just go sit on the quilt in the hut. take a breath. and then go back to watching your family fall apart and your brethren be massacred and remember that your dad never comes home from work because that's what it is.


*___*___*

MORE POTENTIAL NAMES FOR THE CATS I WANT BUT CAN'T HAVE BECAUSE I'M ALLERGIC, A LIST:

(1) Leopold & Wolfgang __(if you spot the reference i'll think you're epic intelligent)

(2) JS & CPE __(same pattern as above)

(3) Wilhelm & Reginald (no pattern)

(4) Phat & So?

(5) Stephen Daedalus & Leopold Bloom (but i'd probably just call them Daedalus & Bloom)

(6) Callamity & Jane (in case there's one boy one and one girl one)


*___*___*

i don't know what to write about. still. i see things in my head, but... just in collage. in kaleidoscope. i'm seeing...

skinny girls. in dresses. in boots and scarves. by the beach and walking down streets. blondes and brunettes. i see the protuberances of their vertebrae. i see my GF shaking her head at me and saying 'i hate your mythical future wife that bitch'. i see daffodils. lots of skimpy white flowers that are flimsy the way models are. bundles of angles and conjunction points. i see things in black and white. i see little kids with raspberry icecream cones dripping down their chins. i think of how giddy my grandma was last week at her 60th wedding anniversary. i think of how many lies you must tell when you're married to someone for 60 years. but that doesn't scare me soo much. i'm actually terrified by how many truths you must reveal to someone in 60 years. and i see, in a quiet corner someone with a disability. i see in every quiet corner a person with a disability. half as many limbs and life still moves just as fast. something about that bothers me. though my sister seems just fine when i speak to her. she tells me if i can't get a cat i should get a dog. why do you want a pet all of a sudden anyway? because of 4am i say. huh? because of all those hours that exist between midnight and sunrise when i sit at my white desk and read and take notes and highlight and stare off into space. and nothing moves. and i get tired of trying to pick music and so just sit in silence (or listen to my heater purr but not actually warm) and watch the shadows quiver in fear as they slowly dissipate back into the surfaces they came from. maybe like water soaking back beneath the surface it sprang from. maybe. maybemaybe. __that's why? are you lonely, is that what you're trying to say? no. not exactly. just sometimes i forget i'm alive. peer pressure maybe (maybemaybe) you spend soo many hours just you and inanimate objects and the quiet hours, the inbetween hours, the phantom hours (and your dreams wait for you jealously in your bed and scowl at you from the sheets thinking damn you gimme a white screen or pull down the black shades on the insides of your eyelids so i can project myself onto) and i just think if i had a cat sitting on my desk purring i'd feel more alive. or at least less bullied by everything that lives in my room without a heartbeat. (even the cold night has a heartbeat).
"i'll get you a fish" (this is my GF, my GF says this).
i, of course, obsessed with naming things, think what i might call the fish [Geronimo __Galileo__ Magellan __Moby __Captain Ahab __Sharkweek __Spartacus __Lil Dwayne] (then i hear my sister telling me, on the phone, if you get a dog i think you should name it Tokyo. but only if it's a girl.
- why can't you name a boy Tokyo? it works just fine for both.
- no. just girl.
- no. both.
- no. you can't use my name if you're going to be like that.
- like what?
- like your father.
- like your father?
- he's more like you. inflexible.
- i think you're being inflexible right now.
- and that's why you're like your father. you don't understand.
- don't understand what?
- that proves my point.
- [i'm so confused]

i see quiet music. this young man who was busking in the cold the other night. him and a fluorescent scarlet electric guitar that played a continuous melody. it felt lonely. sans melody. sans rhythm. sans bass. sounded to me like a survivor. like the final element of a dream everyone else had walked off on. or given up on. or transferred to a different department. or moved to a better neighborhood. or was always smarter than you and got a scholarship to go to a better school and your mom is epic supportive when she says 'one good friend you had. and you couldn't even keep them could you? couldn't keep up could you?' and so the guitar cries. only it doesn't sound like a cry. more like...
feet.
walking.
not thinking.
not... moping.
beyond that stuff.
just:
feet.
walking.
just that.

i see LA. i've been seeing it a lot nowadays. i always miss everything i remember long enough to miss, but... lately. palm trees and highways. i miss writing about it. LA is the sort of city you want to write novels about. like Shanghai. and Haifa. not Gold Coast. Gold Coast is the sort of city you want to dream your way out of. the sort of city you sit at coffee shops and close your eyes fantasizing about Paris and Berlin.
____and then there's a skinny girl, and it's windy and her hair's everywhere. and a guy who used recreational drugs as a teenager but grew up just fine, see, it's not the end of the world. i see conversations between lovers and friends and between stranger-dogs in the street who sniff and smile at each other in dog language while their owners yapyap about whatever it is dog-walkers yapyap about.

3:26am.
hello.

closest thing to something alive in this room is the lamp.

i hate the sound of taptaptaping when i type.
it reminds me of the Raven (suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door).

then silence again.

and in the dark corner, next to my disabled sister a new sentence waits to form itself. seeping out of a surface like a shadow. like pitch black water after sundown when the beaches turn to tar that smell of the salt of one million dinosaurs a million years dead whose bones have evaporated into the sky and now we breathe it in like ghosts of once-were-triceratops. no wonder my head feels soo heavy.

where am i?

how'd i get here?

...

sidenote

truth is, whenever i stop and think about it, it all seems very simple.
very clear.
very natural.
very much... if X then Y, if A then B. get up, get up, get up and live so long as you have will. and when that's expended, lie down. if Z then XX.

but then i look up from my notebook
and look around me
and can't understand how the soo very easy formulas have led to this.

if tired then sleep.
if hungry then eat.
first work, then achieve.
take a million steps, then you're there.
close your eyes, then kiss.
kiss then kiss again
kiss again then kiss again and again (and again).
then open your eyes, and smile.
if raining then take a walk.
if sad then listen to radiohead.
if happy then jump up and down in concentric circles around your girlfriend or coffee table or pet dog singing Hey Jealousy by the Gin Blossoms like a 12 year old girl because we're all 12 year old girls sometimes because 12 year old girls are absolutely wonderful we should all be soo lucky to be a 12 year old girl from time to time.

but then why are we all hungry, awake at 2:43am, without any desire or anticipation to face tomorrow and my mouse is out of batteries i'm tempted to hurl it across the room. if X then wtf.
if Y then fml. <--- i love the language of our generation. screw you that's not high-literature. i think fml is like, totally, omg the most expressive thing to be invented since msn messenger thought-up the emoticon.

in final news:
it is 2:44am.
we are all tired.
my face does feel like plastic.
my hands are sweaty, my mouse is out of batteries
i can't be bothered dealing with tomorrow so i'm just sitting around trying to will it away.

someone needs to work out what's up with how we apply the formulas.
for the record i believe in the simplicity of life.
i believe in it because children embody it.
i believe there is some magnificent truth to children. something deeply and profoundly human. more human than you and i. more truthful because they're some few years closer to being angels and fairies.
the elderly are the same. by then perhaps they've remembered what it was like to be angels and fairies. full circle. path integrals. recapitulation in the tonal key.

this weekend i think i'll listen to Brahms and Future Islands and get emotional and spit on my car because i hate it and fantasize about not being allergic to cats so i could have one purr softly sleeping on my white ikea desk having cat-dreams at 2:50am while i sat around and digested international law and overdue email responses and to-do lists with more do than to and looking at my bed apprehensively because shut-eye means wednesday and wednesday means mayhem.

wha
ev
a

this has been a coffee-shop-worthy ramble courtesy of your favourite internet stranger apennyfortheoldguy.

(in final news i'm going to make a cardboard sign to wear around my neck for the rest of my life that reads:

WILL DANCE FOR SMOOCHIES.

no?

i think very yes.

THINGS

one.
it has recently come to my attention that one of my posts is... uhm, kinda doing the tumblr circuit. and getting posted and reposted and stuff. i feel rather honoured. so. if you're one of the peeps who read it and liked it and thought it worthy of repetition, then i am happy that it made that little 'click' noise for you inside your heart/brain/interpret-the-world-unit.


two.
the only true subversives are the people who do the right thing. rockers aren't subversive. they're cool. hipsters aren't anti-establishment, they're dudes with daddy's credit card who stopped by american apparel and paid wayy too much for a tshirt made to look like they forked out the the $3 they had left after paying rent and buying a bottle of scotch from an op-shop/thrift store.

i know a subversive. he wears white socks with sandals and doesn't givva. he gets good grades cause he wants to and the urban-outfitter catalogue-look-a-likes stare at him walk past while striking poses smoking cigarettes and think he's a douche. there's nothing subversive or alternative about dressing like everyone dresses. or doing what everybody else does.

i know a dude who didn't leave the house for a month because he was playing WOW. he's tucked his shirt into his pants since he was 8 years old and doesn't drink because his God tells him not to. he's not actually aware that there is such a thing as 'cool' or 'popularity' and he calls everyone he's ever met his friend because he has no reason to think they're not friends. this dude is not only a subversive, i damn well think he's my role model.


three.
about a month ago i made a pact with myself. here's how the unilateral agreement works:
Q, you're not allowed to forget anything you've read. ever. everever.

that's all there is to it. i just didn't have time to re-read. so, it had to be that if i read it, it had to stay in. wanna know something funny? it kinda works. watch:
Wilkinson v Downton was decided in 1897
the minority judges in Al-Ketab v The Commonwealth were Gleeson CJ, Gummow and Kirby JJ
i have to take my car in for service tomorrow
jus terii is an argument whereby a third party tries to defend their possession of an item by showing that someone (other than the plaintiff) has a more legitimate title to the goods.


four.
i feel like writing.
but do not feel creative.


five.
- he's having trouble getting a job.
- we're all gonna have trouble.
- no, i'm gonna have trouble, you're gonna be fine.
- no dude. it's the end of the world, we're all screwed. we'll all be working at McDonald's, but i'll get fired first for stealing about a bathtub of frozen-coke everyday.
- that's probably true.
- kill me now.
- can't. need you to tutor me for evidence.
- user.
- geeks should be kept on leashes and told to tutor for their bread. now dance for me.
- thou art truly magnificent.
- thanks. coffee break?
- yes please.


six.
hi creativity.
my name's Q.
i know i've kinda been dogging you lately,
doing tha whole 'not writing cause i'm too busy'
but, like, uhm, could do with a sprinkle of the ol' magic.
whattdya say?
wanna relive the glory days a bit?
i'll buy you dinner and let you grope me in the parking lot?
no?
nothing?

dear readers: blame creativity if this post sucks.

i am.

taking account

this is because i'm 27, that makes it time to do this. because i am 27 and suitably tired. suitably blind. suitably all knowing, all seeing, all confused, all certainty. because i don't think about my shoes anymore and barely lift my feet when i walk. because i hold my back upright. because i smile only when i mean too. because i laugh less frequently, but feel like an honest man when i do. because i'm 27. accordingly, i don't feel the need to have friends. but when i do have them, i feel the need to love them deeply. deeply and madly. intensely. because memory is a thing of oceanic volume to me. something voluptuous and mesmerizing so that i can sit on busses and trains and at desks and behind plastic sweaty steering wheels and be lost inside and around beneath and above it for hours upon hours and years upon years all within its confines of faded yellows around the corners of people's names and white-washed splashes across accounts of weeks and who said what and last kisses and first moments and the geraniums in haifa couldn't possibly be as red as i remember and the whole of prague sounds like ice crunching underfoot.

because i'm 27 now it means i've amassed personalities. identities. once upon a 1990 i was ceasar and once upon an autumn i was lost and once upon a midsummer night's yawn i made out with a big breasted blonde by a river in Adelaide, having lied to our friends who waited for us till 3am that the car had not started. once upon this once i shot free-throws and dreamt of being in the NBA. of writing essays and being in the high court. of looking at microscope slides and being a doctor in the western sahara. because i am 27 i know about wanting to be a husband and wanting to be a shallow playboy who's fingers smell of women's sex and who's lips are tender from being bitten too hard. a 27 year old knows a little about that. a little about loneliness and isolation and greed and has enough knowledge to hold a book lightly when it deserves to be so held. who isn't afraid to tell a stranger to go f*ck themselves and to tell another stranger in the most sincere voice shhh, don't cry. this here is a bad moment. another moment will be fine again. another moment somewhere is fine just right now and is waiting for you. and for me also. and you and i, new stranger friend, must do what we can to chase dandelions till we find that moment. these are the accounts of old men such as myself. in this generation, i am fossil and wise like Tiresias.

because i am 27 and have lost 27 things i don't remember. 27 times maybe i just lost the same thing. over and over. maybe 27 times i lost the same thing in different ways and found it again (which i also don't remember) but only that i lost it again so that when i needed it wasn't there only to be found when it made no difference only to be missing again when it did. and if you know what i mean then...
then...

but here are flowers and here is a man who likes the feel of a comfortable couch. the feel of a freshly made bed. the feel of honey in his mouth (even if not the taste) the feel of breast in his mouth even if it has no taste, or if like yours is a little bit salty or if like the future it is the taste of all we've got. all we've got. all we've got. i'm a walker every city i've ever been to is made for walking through. maybe not LA.

i'm 27 that's a perfect age for lists. names of cats i've never had and names of people who could have been my great friends had i had time to make new greatest friends. Nabil. Kevin. Zane. Daniel.

all i want to talk about at 27 is the smell of jasmine in the summer from behind stone walls. and how tired men get. how if you sit at a desk for 10 hours a day you start to feel like you smell of wretched filth and stare at every hair that falls to the table and your hands are sweaty so everything you touch feels like it's covered in saliva and how you shower 4 times a day and when you touch your face it feels plastic from all the drugs you take to stay awake and not be depressed and how you're not depressed but you're not really anything else either. when someone asks you how you're feeling you say what feeling? and don't cry because you can't but feel that there's a part of you somewhere in another sub-sub-universe that's crying for everything if the Gee Eff Cee taught us anything is you pay for it all in the end. that's something i've learnt by now. or at least learnt to be afraid of. even though i'm afraid of less things.

goddammit the Disintegration Loops are beautiful.

i grow old
i grow old
i shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled.

i shall brush my teeth and rub my forehead.

i shall continue to be another of another,
like all the others who are also another of another,
and be pixels on the screens of strangers and
moving blur in the peripheral vision of supermarket checkouteers such as myself
and shall live until i stop.

but for now.
i have lost the 27th thingee of the thingees i know i once had.