What it is that I am seeing, in this moment, are plans. Given to me by this tinnitus, it has been loaded


    into me over the extended period of my life; but now it has to be emphasised. It was only when I


    started to write it out that I got any sense of continuity; and this continuity required a point from


    which it can be realised – my whole life I did not see it.


    She was there, and I cannot remember how long it has been since then; and I must have been so


    young, but this moment is when my passion grew its strongest. The frame in which my life was


    structured in fantasy – somewhat ironically, for now I am looking up at this dusty roadway,


    wondering if this is any more realistic?


    Realistic in the sense that my expectation is subverted – and things can only go for so long, which is


    representative of my relationship with her – and something always has to happen, such is why it


    ended as it did – and I cannot forget, which is why I am seeing it in you again, and so now realistically


    this is how the relationship exists, again.


    Although the feeling is mechanical, which boils down to into nymphomaniac desires, and so this can


    also be reduced to instinct. And I do not mean it, but I cannot help it – and looking at her has now


    spurred me into its embrace, although the dead body still stands as I think about the darkness this


    other side holds. And so the nymphomaniac becomes a murderer, as I look around me, at these


    dusty roadways.. “how many people”, I ask myself “how long?”


    The voice asks how it can be made more effective, for really the tribulation of ones past does not


    seem to matter anymore – only as a tool to project it into predictable futures.


    This infernal murderer is derived from my loneliness, my accusatory demeanour – and my outburst


    has no target. I am not alone anymore, and my defendant lies besides me, now locked into my left or


    right brain. She cannot get out, her wailing turns to this plan, to save herself – from what, I am not


    sure anymore… he tends to show himself infrequently, and this makes it so that he is unpredictable;


    and now untrustworthy – it is revealed in this world, and so it is a symptom; and I have been


    breaking it down.


    You will notice how I have been stuck here, walking upon this street, for what seems to be my whole


    life now – and so the figure is illusive because I can never find its source, only its residue.


    Its residue is what plants me here, a ghost, looking for some kind of closure, unable to move on until


    I have found it; and it lies within the external conversation that passes by as I go about looking for it.


    The process has made me feel liberated, in a sense – now that I can derive my own sense of


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    satisfaction, although always parallel to this anonymised figure. And so this land-locked enclosure,


    form which my desires trickle; and so I have not noticed a mountain – I have not seen the waterfall.


    The plan comes across like an experiment – how many people can you get to do the same thing?


    The question I ask is if the repeatable stuff makes us whole, makes us one, as a species locked into a


    connection of relativism. The physics of transportation, which is what allows us to live as we do.


    Although my greed makes it so that I never have enough, always comparing to a figure that I have


    not seen, and can only imagine at this point – they would have to be able to do anything.


    How could one thing do it all?


    I think about my priorities – and what they mean to me, considering that time only allows for some,


    and these images have to correlate, or else the continuity would dissipate, and so you would not


    have been there, to see this… voice. And so my priority is to keep myself held up, upon these stilts


    that guide me; and I cannot say what choices I could have made besides this – and so what holds me


    up now becomes warped. She flashes into my mind for a moment; I phase through an assortment of


    ideas – and so it all burns up as I am planted there, at the end of it all. What would I have wanted, if I


    were you?


    The robot turns green, as I stand still by its side, the cars like meteors, upon a fine trajectory of silk,


    suggested through the walled street – I’ve always wondered what this would look like in space.


    I think about the claustrophobia of such a place, in which the openness is what kills you upon


    contact, a sort of inescapability, unless you have come prepared; and so whoever comes prepared


    would have to have access to all of its preparation down here. It would be a major communal effort –


    but quite selfish in that someone would have the idea, and so only someone would be able to see its complete image –


    and all of the others are then thrust into its repetitive workload.


    Why anyone would want to work, could be because they don’t know – we cannot see the scope.


    The scope at this point, still holds me kicking rocks; but now I am a step closer to my residence; and


    a step closer to being back with these extensions that allow me to continue this journalism – and so


    what more I have seen, being anything else this thing can tell me.


    I enjoy the wind outside, the feeling of it on my skin – I think about this, heading back to that room,


    where I am locked to work, and made to seem like its enjoyable. The writing never ends.


    It restarts, however, as I open up a new page.