The future thinker always looks back. The past occurs there instantaneously. How are the moments


    summarised? John has been thinking about this for a while now; but whether he is thinking about it


    clearly, is not altogether there. He has been getting omens, telling him good from bad – and he can''t


    tell if it''s true, as if there is some kind of game, or trial he is unaware of. Aware enough to notice its


    smell, he continues thinking his words onto the page, scratched into wood.


    He barks like a dog as of late, mentioning collaborative ventures to the gentleman at the smoke


    shop. He mentions his book briefly, but lacking a certain charm, the gentleman is interested in other


    topics today, as he swoons over the whereabouts and whose who in the town, although a little


    disassociated for me, questioning from which town he is sourcing his reference, for I have never


    heard of this before, save for the light jazz strummed anonymously in the private studio.


    Although my mind does not wander to international acclaim these days, I have been somewhat


    sucked dry of my desire to be noticed, too much. The pervading buzzing makes sure of that, as I


    proceed to slowly fade away again, thinking of tension we feel between conversation.


    The time it takes for me here, at the smoke shop, is not less than a rats catch in a trap, over its life. It


    happens very quickly, although I have been alive for some time now, and unlike the rat, I will


    continue living out of this moment, in which the majority of the day is spent, scratching.


    Although, he does spend some time in my study, or rather the studio, when he is around, for


    together things are required to have energy, certain amounts of it make things feel normal; and so


    the study is reserved for thoughts alone, and writing generally takes this sideline too; although the


    music we can put together passes time and relates us through verse, seeing the gentleman, more as


    a sort of buddy, or fellow now, we travel together occasionally; and this is to say that I now go out at


    a moments breath, moving through the days, as if searching for a signal out there, and so it has


    become a regular movement, and it leads to the community centre time and time again, where my


    mind festers – and the band plays, and she occasionally appears; and we all tend to repeat, waiting


    for something different.


    And so it gets easier as conversation becomes more common, and so the band becomes familiar,


    looking around the room at the different recording devices, and stock instruments that are available,


    some artists having brought their own. My eyes are stuck on the drum set, which doesn’t seem to


    move too often.


    I have found reasons as to why my smoking never stops, feeling this strange impulsion has driven me


    to more equal grounds with her, somewhat mysterious, although never really known, I am looking at


    her through the fa?ade of the creative, and I feel as though she does this a lot, searching for


    something fantastical – more real than real, and I wonder how real it can actually get, although


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    questioning if I’d ever want to be there – perhaps more suitably watching through a screen.


    I get quite jealous of him, however, because he seems to be more fluent, in their interaction; and so


    when he is around I tend to focus on other things, although this fellow is good to hang around – he


    introduces me to everybody. Perhaps something we can learn, but it would seem as though he is a


    natural, as if he has met them all before.


    He tells me that the centre is like a hub; and artists are moving through quite often, seeing many


    new faces all of the time – “perhaps some move too fast” he says, looking through me at the time.


    “I find that the burnout kills” she says, as if moving somewhere, fast, “I’m not sure if my breaks are


    longer than the work” cooling off.


    I say nothing, looking forward at the burning cigarette. I don’t have a watch; but I can feel this


    ticking, as if there were a speed limit.


    “I wonder what would happen if you break the box” I say, abstractly.


    As if caught off guard, she looks back “burnout?”


    At this point, I’m not thinking about burnout perse, but she has a point, in that the box permits


    burnout by working too hard; but rather I’m concerned about how she has a box there in the first


    place.. wondering what calls us to such a thing…


    “if I were to consider myself an artist, I’m not sure when I’d be able to claim my burnout, considering


    everyday might feel like a holiday.”


    “it doesn’t feel like a holiday to me” she says, brooding.


    I wonder why.. although he cuts me off. “yeah I’d enjoy the pay”


    “if there is any” she says “I mean, its far in between, sometimes I question my establishment, I


    haven’t done anything remarkable”. She resides around the community centre, although the


    community here seems a little saturated. I think to myself, and my financial stilts, although best not


    to pry, I rather continue smoking, looking at the fine lines blowing in the wind.


    I’ve always wanted to host an event; it feels as though they happen naturally sometimes.


    Although at the community centre, it would take some time for anyone to really get into anything on


    a large scale; and I always blame myself for this, subverting it to larger government interests.


    The ringing in my head makes me feel overwhelmed for a moment as I think of the scale of such a


    centre, working with all of its others over space. But I cannot seem to find any others; and arrived at


    this one on a whim, luckily enough – and so how long would it take before we met more people like


    us? I’m not sure if I’d ever want to, brooding myself, now.


    I think of the waste that we can construe from a project such as this, still thinking about the greater


    industrial mechanism that has led me here out of longing. Searching for something that is not there,


    the ringing reminds me of another time, in which I can identify a sort of simplicity, although naively,


    for I have never been there; and so maybe I am taking this current predicament for granted, for we


    never know the labours of who brought us here; and most probably are unaware of their names,


    save for their livelihood.


    I take a moment to look closer at the faces of those around me, looking for despair; but perhaps it is


    just me at this point, wrinkling my head I look down again, and put my cigarette out on the floor.