I don't think that's relevant

It’s not really about anything, he explained. So it’s about nothing, she asked. No it’s everything, but not really about anything. She didn’t understand, but she knew he was trying to tell her something. That’s the way of it, sometimes, you just can’t get it, though you know it’s very profound. The way the clock ticks through the seconds, the way the water flushes down the toilet, the way the sunlight turns blue as the day fades away.

Blue o’clock, beer o’clock, it’s all really the same thing, a defined moment, an attempt to put limits on miscomprehension. We sit there and we talk about the secrets of the universe, certain in our uncertainty that we can never really truly understand.

Imagine the boredom, if we could. A landscape of dead thoughts and discarded theories that play havoc with our minds of instincts and instances, memories and plagiaries of things that we wished we had experienced but we’d just been told in passing by strangers that wouldn’t be our friends.

Sometimes, it asked, I wish you would just ask me what’s the matter. I didn’t respond to that, I didn’t tell him that the question was really whether I cared. That’s the thing with life, as the end lies near, just behind the corner, waiting to pounce on its next meal, napkin around its neck and an appetite awakened by the smell of death. It’s the stupidity of it all, the lack of a gleam in your neighbours eye.

I’m not very happy with my anus right now, it told me about when it cheated. It’s not very happy with me either. Too much shit flowing out my mouth, so it feels neglected. It feels like there is worms crawling around my stomach, unsure about which way is out, so they burrow their way through the lining of my consciousness, slowly eating their way through my sanity till the whole is joined, patches of light playing through the darkness of her patience.