Make me gopher power. Make me imprint my plasma upon your ageing mind. The diuretha of my spasmic existence shall fry your home grown brinjals all the way to homily hell. I’ve existed in this two-way torment of your pomp and my circumstance, or my pomp and your circumstance until I went mad convincing myself I wasn’t insane. Now I know there is no asylum for me outside the ones of my own making. Any creature of my sort must make up a birthplace before it can lick its wounds. For years I trembled at every hollow-point gush like a sinner with a super-suppressed conscience before the confessional. But there was no coherent comfort for me to escape and regenerate. Every time I stepped out to where passages were lit with only starlight; I tried.

Only to wake up in the morning realizing it’s easy to loose one’s way and return to civilization in the end. If I was to live, or rather, go on living, I would need to get a map.
Still tired; tired of staring up at small pieces of daylight. They set me up on this path and said, ‘Walk.’ Only each time I fell into these holes in the ground. Some of them had underground water and each time I climbed out, I felt happy just be out. Happy enough to go into the next hole. Times I got more happy than holes and other time I got more holes than happy but I went on.

Every time I felt cheated:
• There is no doubt
• Everybody’s favorite subject
• Silence
• Not that it makes any difference
• Right; no reason it should
• But don’t forget, you asked ‘why?’

A zillion red-spot-headed toadstools littered my path — glinting harsh lights of sun shining around it. Insipid tea never tasted so good. Rock those taste buds back to infinity. Feel the cracks in the packed mud. Why doesn’t it rain before the water bearer?

Gotta go on, get on with it. I’m beginning to loose my own coherence in this mess. Gotta come back from worm headspace crawling into a starched ant on a white Formica table. I like this table clean because I work here. So please…