It's Like a Long, Thin Bungalow

How about a random Friday?

A grey window, the whole city below us stretching out to the calm sea and over the sea to Ireland. Where does the world go when the curve of the earth takes it away from us? There is cool, clear water punctuated and split at the level that makes legibility impossible. I cannot take each sentence written here and split it into anything which you may understand at any real level. This text is simply that: text with no special relevance for any concepts in my head. In Italy it is an hour ahead as it is through most of mainland Europe. Portugal may be different but I am not sure; It is certainly the furthest west. 70% of all flights are across the Atlantic. There is no connection. I am trying to bring this round to something more meaningful but all I get is fragments of the world with no connection. No Connection. My hand is taken by some person on the other side of the planet and made to write automatically. There is a fizz somewhere underneath my brain as some chemical leaches out of a gland into my blood. What is mad now? In the rain forest somewhere, a man loses his mind as the night closes in. There are strange sounds here, the sounds of a million undiscovered species starting up for the hours of darkness. A strange mantis, red and green, meets its mate in the crook of a tree close by while a type of cat never seen by man spits hairballs into the undergrowth.

I return to a small apartment, high up in a building in some big North-American city. It is evening but not yet night-time though at this time of year, it is as dark as it will get. Listening carefully, I can hear the traffic down below and sometimes see the quality of the light outside changing as traffic signals and advertising signs alter to give their different messages. This is a clean apartment, not overly furnished but nice enough. In the whole damn world, I am in this place and it is the centre of all I think about. I try to think of curling up in a small wood in the country or of the only shade under the highest hill in some desert but all I can think about is washed out by the senses of this place. The table, the chairs, the glass with its quivering shadow on the wall over there; they are all part of the main show. So much happens and yet so little happens. My life seems full but when I look back at it there is so much repetition, where the same thing happens or nothing happens for hours on end.