It is midnight; and I am waking up… so early. I can feel it


    moving inside of me, this unborn child made of rocks. I was


    split apart only a moment ago. The ecstasy which drives me


    was slowly ebbed out from within my carcass. Searing heat


    burnt my eyes into place and the nuclear winter sticks its


    image upon my visage.


    I could swear that I have been here before, although apart, I


    can only remember snippets of the birth.


    Every day is a gaze for me, and I am walking upon its


    countertops, perusing for the next thing to consume.


    My light is absorbed densely by the space around me; but


    within I am driven by a constant lack. An addiction which


    permits me to sin in the eyes of any perceiver that I come


    across - my sin never being fully realised, for it always tends


    to rip itself apart at the periphery.


    I am blended by these parts that follow, leading to a disk in


    the evermore future. It seems inaccessible, I have only


    realised it quite recently in my travels, and this is not to say


    that I travel very far, never really having to go anywhere


    besides that of my backdoor. Back garden – front garden;


    and all around in a designated precipice, I can walk to its


    edge and there I stop for a moment, before being thrust


    back, having witnessed all possibility permitted to me during


    the day cycles.


    I go out, to a point; and I am stretched there, prodded for


    thought in which the inspiration can be laid upon a functional


    bedrock. From this point, being pulled back in, I commit


    myself to a trance in which I decipher what it is that I


    perceive, day in – day out, counted by the shadow of a clock,


    it calls out to me and strikes me hardly each time it seems as


    though I miss the moment to exist as I do, questioning.


    The whole set of events started at the point of questioning.


    In which I realised questioning; and could see its flow tracked


    across my brain at a course of light speed, with a few knots


    here and there to make do for any inconsistencies.


    I, myself, becoming an inconsistency of late, I look out to this


    drab circus I’ve been within for however many moons.


    The circus takes place inside of my mind; and time travels


    quickly there. In a moment, the journalist is tasked at writing


    down their apparent fancies and so leached onto the


    document is a transcription for the rights of its own


    existence. The existence then stops.


    I stand inside of this dark room, and look out into the light.


    There is a lampshade not far off from where I stay, and then


    repeated again at every integer of this asphalt road that lines


    the cul de sac, maintaining a spine at which the nervous cars


    can go back and forth, transporting such aggregate to where


    it would like to be. At this moment, I do not have a car, so I


    decide to walk upon its side, which always seems somewhat


    removed, although the cracks providing something


    interesting to look at.


    “Should I walk?” I ask myself, out loud “what would be the


    purpose?” at this hour everything seems closed off, as if no


    one actually exists in this ghost town; and so it can be quite a


    refreshing feeling, to walk for the sake of it; but I cannot will


    myself forward. Something is holding me here – a piece of


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    matter that cannot be unstuck, I am forced to try confront its


    blankness, perhaps making up the answer as I permit myself


    the time to think about it, for it never really seems like


    anything is there in the first place.


    “perhaps it will clear my mind” I say as I put on a shabby top,


    keeping out the wispy cold just enough for one to feel


    temperate.


    Inside of this town, there is no melting heat, or hypothermia


    that one is subject to throughout their time here – and so the


    town can also be described as temperate, or neutral, and the


    residents of such a space enact this will succinctly, without


    much of a hitch ever being made, unless maybe out of


    earshot, in which the darkness pervades, under somewhat


    consensual terms – the characters take part in business.


    And this shady affair is probably what has thrust me into this


    space of walking for some time now, as it has become a


    repetitive habit, to watch how nothingness permits such


    possibility in what can be designated as space.


    This legal designation of space has had implications on me,


    for it feels as though we walk through a labyrinth. I am


    looking at the many corners that I have to cross to get to a


    point that can be considered as road, and so the same road I


    have travelled on for some time now, when deciding that the


    garden space has extended its ruling.


    How far my garden reaches these days is beyond me; but it


    becomes confusing, for now we exist in some kind of


    timeshare – and many of the activities that I would have


    considered do not happen anymore, it would seem as though


    business has centralised it elsewhere.


    This is no matter for me, for I enjoy the quaint airiness of


    such a space, and have learnt to enjoy this among other


    things that one can consider to be little, these days.


    Although, at the back of my mind, stuck in the frame, I do


    tend to ask myself who this business is, or maybe who these


    businesses are?


    A lot of the time I come to self-reflection.


    This can be a point of frustration, as I walk, because I can


    only see these spinal corridors and dense light that leads me


    into forever.


    As to how any of this got here is beyond me; but it provides


    me with a moment to think of the potential future, as I start


    to break down who it is that could be joining me on such a


    journey.


    Inside of my mind there are millions of you; but this


    information needs to be filtered, over time – and so I commit


    myself to habits which allow for certain voices to be heard


    just a little bit louder, nudging suggestibility into directions


    that I would not initially be aware of. And once there I can


    reinforce it through the segregation of all of the other


    potential formats.


    This is what the walking helps with, although I continuously


    tell myself to do it while asleep, or rather to think alone. The


    walking itself being a distraction when in these moments, I


    find that I am required to be around some tool, or extension,


    in which this mind can will itself to remember through


    witnessing its own actions repeated. The body as an


    extension, for walking, then introduces an assortment of


    character to my pose, as the dark night is quite inspiring at


    this moment.


    Although now that I have had enough, I am required to


    document such a process as walking, and so head back to the


    point of my own centralisation, from which activity can be


    derived – I continue to work on a journal entry that never


    stops. Its progressive growth changes the way I act – the way


    I exist upon this road network, and yet from what angle, if


    not perceived?