The words I speak are coming out of my mouth as a physical entity. Every sentence is slapping down onto the floor like alphabet spaghetti, tomato juice and all. She doesn’t seem to alarmed by all this, she’s simply nodding her head as I talk about love, as I talk about life, and as I talk about the latest television show, the one with all the blood and gore. She nods as I let it all out, with no intention of stopping me. And when I’m done, and the spaghetti is starting to stink, she cleans it all up and throws the crunched up tissue of words into a nearby bin. I see some leftover words scattered across the floor. Passion and John Goodman. When did they connect?

I ask someone later about it all, and he just shrugs as the words continue to spill.

‘It’s all just spam, man.’

And I look to the floor at my words once more. I tried to piece them all together, but he was right.

It’s all just spam, man.

Small, Far Away

I’ll draw it on the back of this receipt to show you what I mean. On the left is me, and on the right is you. We’re pretty close together, right?

Right, we are, if we had hands they’d probably be tangled.

Now above my head is my mind. It’s right there, that scribble.

Right there.

Now your scribble, your mind… it’s all the way over there.

Over there?

Yes, your body might be here, but your thoughts are far away.

They are right here, inside here, right now.

But they aren’t. They really aren’t.

I don’t know what to say.

And now you know why.


3 Months

In 3 seconds he blinked

In 3 minutes he yawns

In 3 hours he realises he’s been here before

In 3 days he leaves his home

In 3 weeks he finds his phone

In 3 months he loses it all

In 3 years he finds a new job

In 3 decades he lives for his dreams

In 3 centuries he is referred to as ‘the general public’

In 3 millennia no one knows