RIP

Currently investigating a series of seemingly unrelated deaths in the fish world. Shebunkins, Comets, Danios, White Clouds; none have been spared. Coming on the tail of the recent “Catfish in the Filter” disaster of late 2007, the cold-blooded residents of LilliPilli Land are nervous, very nervous. The short residents perform head-counts with obsessive regularity; scanning tank/pot bottoms with well-trained, red-rimmed, ready-to-overflow-with-tears eyes.

And the short residents are a distrustful bunch, and have requested the recording of each disposal burial ceremony that they cannot attend due to prior commitments, lest I feed the dead to the cat resident…again.

Sick

I am sick. Head aches as thoughts clatter-bounce off skull and back into brain-mush. Pit of stomach sickness; bile rises, even in my sleep. Hurt sent thumping from frustrated heart to every cell.

Respiration.

Breath it out,

breath it out,

breath…you…out.

No. This does not work.
Amuse-distract with beautiful men, over and bend over, and over again. But beautiful men are not the answer, because fucking it out does not work either.

I want you. I don’t want you. I can’t have you. You can’t have me. It won’t work. It will work. You don’t want me. I don’t want you. You won’t have me. I won’t have you. I can’t forget you. You can’t forget me.

Let me go? I can’t!

Let you go? Impossible!

I am sick. You can cure me, and I think you may find I am the answer to what ails you.

If pain persists

Truth is, I don’t sleep much. I woke, after two hours sleep, to that blackness where you have no visual sense of self, but your mind is expansive.

But the supposed unbounded blackness was not in fact limitless, and soon enough, a wave of nausea swept over me as the first flashes registered in my cortex.

Lie still and wait, maybe it was a false perception, I’m big on those of late. But no, the darkness is interspersed with zig-zagging, bright-so-it-hurts, light, always moving to places unknown, on the fringe of visual sense.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

But, sadly, that does not help. Time passes. Tick, tock, tick, tock,  I need a new biological clock.

Eyes open, eyes closed, still the light zigs and the light zags.

Zigs.

Zags.

Zigs.

Zigs.

Zigs.

Zigs and fucking zags, making a mockery of my attempt at an early night.

NO!

You find out your child may be unwell; other problems take a back seat and you realise that you have been a self-indulgent twat.