Over extended periods of time, I come to feel drained at the


    ebb of information that never ends. It troubles me because I


    cannot decide if any of it means anything anymore, losing


    sense of the situation quite a while ago, the circles from


    which I exist have long been left to cobwebs and so my


    infatuation for the expanse of the disk has taken over ones


    characters and will to exist.


    The livelihood from which such a being exists can be hard to


    come by and so I still exist within a network familiarised to


    me from my point of inception: birth.


    Each moment this birth comes to me as if a new experience,


    and being thrust so far away from its cause has left me erring


    on the lines of privacy from these dwellers that have forever


    been in my mind. A protective aura that sometimes


    diminishes itself at the point in which I desire something else;


    but always reinvigorated because nothing ever comes; and I


    ask if that is because I am too used to this to ever change?


    Although change being constant here, the rebirth cements


    itself upon new foundations each time I interact with these


    money lenders.


    My family then exist marginalised at the point in which they


    have been realised as a new government, from which I can


    interact personally, which then leaves abstract the larger


    mechanics that hold me into place – global governance from


    which my actions cannot be perceived; and I am left with the


    symptoms of such an act to that of the private individual.


    Being one myself, I find it hard to cope with the repetitive


    drone that calls out from the crevices of a second mind,


    calling to a consumption that reiterates absorption on its


    most physical and taxing level.


    Constantly I am being called to identify myself, as if I hold


    placement upon this plane; and my identification will always


    come short, in comparison to what we expect, for at each


    point of call, there is always another that will take its place,


    and so forever we are tasked to grow.


    Besides the prodigal debt that I unwittingly reinforce upon


    myself, I always look up towards another future in which this


    work I dedicate myself towards becomes relevant and so


    proves itself in the face of identification; but alas, I can never


    find the grounds for which such a thing can be considered


    relevant; and the majority of the work exists in the air,


    donated to a god that is not quite there, besides in the ways


    that it watches through my eyes, extorting the information


    through a fine sieve, allowing it to travel infinitely upon the


    wavelengths of time, dissipating into possibility.


    And here it would be that even the paper cannot be restored,


    for it will all be burnt away by the time the temperature


    changes here, perhaps actually making it too hot for anyone


    to exist anywhere at all.


    Before that happens, I decide it would be invigorating to put


    on the same shabby shirt and head to some kind of social


    den, unaware of where to find anything in its specifics. This


    would entail more walking, and sometimes it seems like it


    never ends, looking at these lights, although not turned on at


    this point, for the sun now shines brightly upon my back as I


    walk in the other direction.


    Today I come across a book store, and considering it to be


    some kind of placement in this world, I stop and look around


    at what else this place could hold for me. Around the shop


    there is an assortment of restaurants and little bars from


    which company is arranged in a manner that describes it as


    an internal event, I avert my eyes.


    Although sparking a conversation with the bookkeeper, I feel


    as though slowly it would be possible to develop relations


    further, if not for this counter that separates us and our


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    contextual history, preventing a spontaneous interaction, for


    a more genuine resolve towards money, or interest regarding


    this or that book that exists on the shelves. None that I am


    too interested in, for I write books; and reading them has not


    occurred for some time now, “although there was a point” I


    say “in which I was quite invested in reading as a hobby, and


    there are many great writers that I have learnt from”


    “oh, maybe if you name one I can give you a


    recommendation”


    I did not name any; “for the life of me I might have actually


    forgotten” I say, trickling off into another direction, the


    bookkeeper does not know what to say anymore.


    I question myself in this moment, wondering what the point


    of speaking to a person is, when the person exists to direct


    you based on what it is that they are currently doing, or


    experiencing. And this might seem interesting; but becomes


    quite strange to look at it repeated as if I had actually been to


    this exact book store just the other day, when I spoke to that


    other guy about my next order, or meal requirement.


    The conversation is not spontaneous, and this is what I


    search for, although perhaps not giving it enough time for


    spontaneity to erupt, I say my good days and then leave,


    somewhat awestruck that I went in there just to say hello to


    someone who I did not know. And what was it that attracted


    me there in the first place, for I could not see their face at the


    entrance; and so books… and so the easiest point of call –


    and so this person was uninspiring in their appearance, and I


    have not much more to say about that besides their neat hat,


    which they were wearing inside, which inclined me to believe


    that it was more of an aesthetic touch that it was added.


    Continuing my search for something to keep me busy this


    day, I stand at a street corner, for only but a moment, looking


    out to the pixel perfect nature of my environment.


    Everything is blurry, it looks like pixels, it is strange that I


    cannot see the faces of the others opposite me, on the road;


    but I have not put on lenses which allow me to see, I am


    somewhat blinded by the reflection of light; and this


    reflection is bounced in my eye in such a way that it can


    sometimes give me a headache, how it curves around in


    there. No matter, this allows me to judge not based on looks


    at this point, but rather on feeling; and it is directing me this


    way, again, as I turn to my side and walk straight down the


    alleyway.


    It is a large alleyway, big enough for vehicles to pass through,


    although from only one direction – there is no robot that


    directs the traffic here, merely the things in their cars which


    listen to the sign. It says stop, and I am looking at it for a


    moment. Standing so close to such an object allows me to


    look down for a brief moment where I touch the faces of


    those residing in their vehicles, unable to touch or interpret


    the words, we are left to look at each other for less than that,


    to which each head turns and continues with whatever we


    are considering to be important at this moment. I would not


    know, I am not in the car; but next to me stands a beggar.


    Next to me, on the opposite side of this alley, I can see them;


    and we exchange a brief hello, he does not lift his cup to me,


    rather choosing to look back at the cars and continue with


    the work he has been invested in – I think it is about time I


    start to do that myself.


    And to think a conversation with anyone here could be the


    introduction for a new set of inspiration, which drives me


    forth, and this inspiration slowly leaches out of me, for the


    extension is not here: I cannot write. I have chosen this today


    for sometimes we enjoy taking in the information, in its


    entirety, before coming back to a point in which we can put it


    all together again.


    Disabled by my inability to buy expensive drinks, I rather buy


    bread; and head back to the den; and so my socialisation


    starts again, as I pitter patter off into the pages…