On the back of a meeting, full of work rubbish and efforts to increase productivity for little cost, meaning we have to bust a gut, for what? Nothing. It is indeed a fine evening when I have poured myself an IPA in error at 11.pm, and settled down to see how Rochelle and the FF’s are hanging this dark winter’s evening, too dark to see the weather and the music too loud to allow the sound of the weather in. A photograph produced by the one and only Rochelle too, meaning a double thanks for keeping us all in line.
Anyway, Bagpuss style (google it) thinking caps on.
On My Marks…
I couldn’t say how long i’ve been looking at this view, fixed to my chair, bare feet wet in puddles on the floor.
Beings feed me 3 times a day, I think, although the days are confusing, light to dark and back again sometimes several times between feeding. The food is good but what is it?
White noise increases as the windows start to melt, pitter pitter; is this rain, or am I leaking, could it be sweat?
The steps are swimming, becoming amorphous, dappled.
I’m forgetting .
Shapes and sounds, the glass pours shimmering wet.
Lights flicker, I’m becoming the noise.
There we are; 100 words on the nose, about the deconstruction of a human.