August 24th. Da Thought 3.

I'm floating, falling, flying out of control. It's past two, I'm losing it, no word from Concordia, no work on the horizon, no word count changes, nothing. It's all—all of it—in my head. I'm too (whooo) cerebral. You know what I'm talking about, pretty eyes. You know.

In M.I.A.'s Paper Planes video she's wearing a Ride the Lightning shirt.

I had this fantasy (I keep them, like old hockey cards, O-Pee-Chee, in the back of my mind) of getting to fuck an Indian girl with an adorably big nose and a Ride the Lightning tee. I don't know why but it was something a year or a year and a half ago, way before the video came out or probably I'd even heard the song.

The world is trippy like that sometimes, like rainbow coincidences and lightning on demand. All these things dropping out of the sky for me, almost makes a guy want to go back to believing in things. Almost.

And then long walks home and lucky, pretty eyes make it all crumble into forget grocery store's closed locked crumple into fear of failure fear of flying fear of trying.

We all know where this is going. I'm not going to ride this until the end. I get off here, this is my stop, goodnight.

August 5th. Thought, can we get a witness?

I haven't written (or read) anything in about a week. It feels disgusting. I don't know where it's come from but I want it gone. This job and these friends (neither of which really exist) and all these goddamn thoughts.

Tomorrow (today) is Biodome Double Pizza Bell Centre box office. Tomorrow (two days) is blankets lines rain Radiohead back home tired exhausted. And Thursday, maybe Jin and Sandy, maybe. Somewhere in there does Uncle Con get in touch?

(Discordant music interlude.)

Here's to my future, here's to no future. Here's to finishing behind. Hardons heartaches pistons piss-takes. Vipers and rare blood types. Still have to finish A Portrait and The Brothers. Still have to finish Day Sixteen. Still have to keep slogging. Clean out the sink, clean out my wardrobe.

Clean out my cluttered head.