doom, the myth of sydney man, epic, work in progress

he woke in the morning. he felt tired. he turned the light on because his room didn't get much light. he stretched his arms up to the ceiling. his finger tips almost touched the ceiling. they scraped the air against the water mark on the ceiling which looked like a flying ibis with beak and all. he would stare at that water mark for an hour at night, lying in bed, waiting to go to sleep. he yawned and let out a noise. he thought about Germany before the war, mark rothkos fuzzy rectangles and dog shit all, seemingly, at once. he cried a little from the yawn and levered himself out of bed rolling back first and then using the momentum to carry him forward and then sideways and on to the floor. the cold tiles didn't startle him, he was used to them.

it occurred to him that he would die one day. he felt neither sad nor relieved by this, he merely carried on. inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale. inhale. exhale. cough. TB? inhale. exhale. he ate breakfast: toast. he sighed and thought about the day. it was sunny. nice. really nice.

the city he could hear, he could hear it . the buzz, insistent like a low ebb: the tide, the waves of the infinite ocean. he was a blip, he was a dot in a collage which would out live him a thousand million times. make your mark, he said in his head, make your mark today!

his house mate burped loudly. why did she do that? they' re disgusting her burps... lyrics? for a new song? perhaps. he had a band and song lyrics of quality were always hard to come up with. he found himself always thinking of band names as well, "mixed business" was one, as was "just another day at the office". when he mentioned these to other people, however, they didn't seem to appreciate them in the same way that he did. they were ironic, he would say, ironically daggy, well obviously he would think, how could anyone think I was a dag?

he wanted out sometimes. he wanted out of the city.