Distance...

In the land of money-crazed sellers, trigger-happy horns, gaudily-dressed teenagers, fast-food steamboat, illegal taxi carriages and exaggerated accents, I miss my baby the most.

...burns.

You and Me, Off the Kerb

You'd say to me,
I want to repair your desire
And call it a gift
That I stole from just wanting to live
Now I see the vision through your eyes
Your innocence no longer fuels surprise

And I'd say to you,
Trying to outrun your fear
Running to lose
Heart on your sleeve and your soul in your shoes
Take a left,
A sharp left
And another left, meet me on the corner
And we'll start, again.

Do you want to help the world?

Help with the gift of music.

CALLING ALL GENEROUS SOULS!

You, yes, YOU could be the lucky one to help me shower the world with the most

exquisitelyhypnoticdaze-inducing saccharine-sweetyetcardiac-arresting


*pause for breath* notes construed to form melodies that any living creature with a brain developed enough to distinguish noise from music has ever heard.

Take my word for it. I tried it during lunchbreak today and ended up not having enough time to eat. Why? Because I realised that with the magic I was triggering within millions of unhappy people, playing a little improvised run whilst constantly caressing it's beautifully varnished work of craftmanship with my eyes, my hunger cowered into the unfelt recesses of my belly, insignificant.

I knew then it was real. It was destiny. My destiny, this instrumental marvel and visual feast that is the PRS McCarthy, rarely found in any other. It has to work its wonders through my fingers, not through the glass of a crummy basement shop. You all can understand that logic, right?

The evil minions of noise that inhabit the shop don't care about anyone or anything but money. They will not release McCarthy unless its ransom tag is paid.

You and I can work together and unleash the incontrovertible best-kept secret of the history of mankind!

Do the right thing. Change the way you give to the world. Quit slotting 20cents into tins that end up not making that much of a difference to anyone. Change the world through the music you can give to it...through me!

Promotion! Promotion! Promotion! For just $3,700, be the one to purchase the PRS McCarthy for me and be the first to experience musical high! Act now!!!

Just a Mirror for the Sun

mid(day)dream

In Big Sur we take some time to linger on
We three hunky dory's got our snakefinger on
Now let us drink the stars
It's time to steal away
Let's go get lost
Let's go get lost

Six Months Legal

Cigarettes and a super silent night. There is no summation or conclusion to this. Just a train of thought.

I told a friend I changed my blog because I got sick of the old one and my chamber of thoughts needed a revitalising migration. He retorted, saying, "What do you mean change your blog. You can't change a blog when you didn't have one to begin with." I looked back, an eyebrow raised. "You had a blog. Then you disappeared. Then you created The Quixotic," he said, referring to the seemingly indefinite hiatus I took without notification.

Our conversation developed into a realisation that many mutual friends we've become disconnected from for some reason (we keep a foothold on their lives by reading their blogs), have been writing rather depressive entries of late. Talk of dashed dreams, inspirational blackholes and glacial hearts from too many discarded run-ins with love, these very reminiscent of adolescent disconcertion.

I wrote like that in the army. Amongst the occasional proclamation of hope, I was bleary-eyed from forced and extended stagnancy. I guess that's why I stopped writing in the old place. When restlessness morphed into boredom.

It's a wonder when hindsight frames the last ten months. In perspective, that's two months short of a year since I hung my beret. That's eight months since I first kissed the Angel. That's five months since starting nine-to-fives.

That's half a year since I could walk into an R-rated movie beating my chest, head tipped upward, man(legal) enough. Damn, and I haven't.

Like I said. No conclusion. Just train of thought.

Solo

Up for a game of checkers? Anyone? (shit...)
said the pawn.