after Noon

chain smoked ciggerettes and airconditioning. thick black markers and wanking to leonard cohen.

three hours off the plane and I am floor patterns in hallways, hallucinating ambition and checking in with the technology. the fridge is full of wilting food. my flatmate is unable to eat. it all seems the same round here.

The chickens are roasting inside of their coup, I throw scraps of garlic and olives over the fence. They don't seem to get the joke. Everything is irony in this palace of idealism I have built around my life. Her face seemed stretched with the realisation that things had finally worked out OK for me.

I am pages upon pages of inspiration, scrawled and splayed in notebooks that are left in loungerooms and bus shelters. What is this sadism that drives us to document every moment? Like a tourist strapped to a camera, will we miss the point whilst trying to capture it?