So there’s this gentle music playing right now and occasionally it is cut into by the sound of a drill going off. It creates a contrast that wasn’t needed but it does make one think.

Anyway, now that I’m done thinking I need to think about escaping the heat but it has found me and so there is no escape from its warm and sinewy grasp, and I am a glass of milk well past its best before date among the heat’s elongated and pulsating fingers.

Oh, woe is me, for this fate upon which I have been forcibly and irrevocably thrust upon is not one of which I wanted to approach. It is quite unlike a dashing dalliance and I am not being swept off my feet. No, I am here and slowly the heat embraces all and it does so in the same way that a flower falls and decays over the same amount of time it takes for a fly to appear and disappear, depending on how long your attention is held by the fly and its incessant buzzing and that is a really annoying thing.

Sometimes I just want the fly gone but it is there and it seems to move in the form of vignettes if those vignettes were more like a sprig created from only the most horrible of pleasantries. It cuts into the air and breaks the space and sense of stillness and suddenly eons upon eons pour out in a most violent manner and then you’re dimension diving but the issue is that you’ve forgotten to wear good pants and so you’re stuck in the pants you’ve been wearing for the past three days so now you’ve got to find a washing machine but you don’t even know what they look like in these new possibilities and its all endless.

Endlessly boring.

You’d think that at the very least the doilies would look more interesting but they still have that same sense of kitsch that you don’t understand because you were too young to at the time, but little do you realise you’re approaching that age where the things you think of as fancy people younger than you think are trash and so the cycle continues and you’ve learned nothing about how things can change and how you should never leave the path of growth.

Somehow you notice a sour cream stain that wasn’t on your shirt before and then you realise you brought the food you hastily made before sitting down only to be bothered by a fly, so perhaps you can use them as a way to change your trajectory by throwing them away from you and hoping the thrust somehow makes you go back and then you can be back home, but now you’re stuck with a problem.

See, you get rid of the food and then you don’t have the food. You might have to make some more. You eat, you may be stuck.

It’s a tough choice.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 09:23:37

I stopped to think a few times but overall I think this turned out well. The writing isn’t good but this was really fun to write and it goes somewhere. It’s just silly and potentially absurd stuff.

Written at home.