A red fox went by my window while I wrote this
I just realised that somehow - I always resided somewhere between fiction and non-fiction; at a vulgar extreme of both. Muddied in the depth of realism to severe aimlessness and indifference, yet, strolling in the obscure - between literal relevance to absurd irrelevance/s. Both were, amusingly, played at distinct times and distinct geographies. They never really met or crossed paths. And I was amazingly capable of locking each at its context of relevance. But here is just nowhere, and nothing - it’s a construct of words and confusion/s. I can’t serve both ideas in words unless if I view one from the other; I either could view realism as another role I play, or arrogantly prosecute all the roles I’ve designed as fetish. There’s a margin of leisure between the two, maybe it’s here, in words, or things like here, like now - like UK. Places where I, and them, are nothings. where nothing is relevant anymore. Here is where music works best, and clocks. Here is where rain ought to fall. Where weather becomes the reason for most of the things you do, or feel. Here, one can read - but here also gives no purpose for reading. Only reasons for alcohol. But even that, the weather hasn’t invited me to it yet - so meanwhile, I walk - and I make up stories.
