(This is not part of the major work... when I have the urge to write in third person i'll continue writing this... )

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There’s no one at home. The niece is away on a music camp of sorts – the kind where an absence is noticed but not noted, where the goodbyes are appropriate, but not the meaning it. I suppose he loved her, but it didn’t really seem so at the time. Anyway, the girl was having an enjoyable enough existence regardless – she began to think of herself as an investment, of which the camp was a part of and to which few others would be participant. She breathed in, pleased that no one had yet reprimanded her for disappearing so often to the estuary, often an oboe or a boy in hand . The wind rustled through the reeds there, rather than screamed like it did through those of the new players.
The girlfriend, the little woman, or “Therese” as she would probably prefer to be introduced, isn’t around. Joseph notices a particularly tattered pink book out of the corner of his eye and flicks to the front page –
“Name your baby. Published in 1984”. He would prefer to say it than write it, and write it than think it, but sometimes there was no say in the matter.
Born in 1985, Joseph likes the what if. He pictures the chemical composition momentarily suspended above page 34, a predilection of which he was in part the product, and imagines it shifting slightly. It instead takes a liking to
[He writes down the name Finn.]
Joseph, who could have been Finn, also used to write down dates, and pretend they were the end of the world. Or to be precise, one date, again and again, in the back of every journal that was ever kept, the fading pencil tracing an ever sharpening peril: 16th September 2071. When the innocuous curves finally translated to reality, Joseph would drive off a cliff. Death, he figures, is a certain enough thing to believe in.
“Mm!” he remembers, picking up the pencil again:
Must Get License.

“I like the sounds here” she says.
“It’s nice”
“Except the insects”
Lily pokes the new boy’s head, separating the strands of hair from the sand, the two almost indistinguishable in colour. They laugh, not quite nervously. Dusting her hand on her pocket, Lily notices a threadbare red ribbon caught in the zipper. She ties it around his forehead, in anticipation of a wound. The reaction is quizzical, but the glimmer of a riddle in his eyes is so reflective of the sky that Lily can almost gaze straight through his head. And, she thinks, as though the rest of him were barely there either, the wind takes his newest of decorations. The pair watch the ribbon fold effortlessly into a laced curtain of blue.
“That was kind of cool” he says finally.

Things have been more intense today than any other day I’ve had in a while. Hopefully today will therefore act to reassure my belief in the superpowers of sleep, though it's also brought me tot hat stage of night where I really enjoy listening to Tatu. I like them. Gah... if only being gay was so contagiously tragic.
I've done a little bit of writing for my major work, but this post is mostly so that Rachael doesn't stop visiting the page. i was planning to turn this into one of the horrible late-night ramblings that i used to write for my “national-socialist” Russian of a net buddy to snigger at before getting me to rate the hotness of various girls, but i won't. i'm going to go to sleep, and pull together my ghastly ext2 fragments tomorrow from 2ish onward. hmmm

night

well... it seems having an afternoon nap means i don't get tired all night afterward. which might be terrible, but it has meant that i have made a pretty blog, of which i might be proud. this will be mostly postings of what i'm writing for extension two english - the background is a photo of my actual logbook! how clever! :)

sleep well!

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A masochistic mahogany cockroach charging at the wall and a lifeless brush in my right hand battle for concern. The insect’s disgusting thorax beats ecstatically against the ceiling now, possessed by some ill-fitted light – the dinge of creativity, the landlord laughs, every time I mention it. It’s not all so bad. I don’t mean the direction of my life is in darkness, or something. Though I suppose everyone’s is. I like to think of it like those spiky sticks that used to fall around my front garden when I was younger, the sticks that I would spend hours breaking and reassembling when devastatingly bored. There would be only two identical parts, but I could make them draw upward falsely forever through stacking and stacking. Then I would paint them orange and stick googly eyes on them or something. But that’s how I see myself living one stage to the next – stacking in mid air. And I with my grubby fingers was god.

I turn off the light and imagine the cockroach drop from the buzz of my light bulb and fall against the skirting board, scuttling into some forgotten stria, and clacking. I close my eyes for the warmer kind of darkness – the darkness of circling mystery, before again opening my eyes to a clacking threat and instinctively switching the light back on. So, it seems the cockroach wins the battle for my concern. I eventually get bored of caring that I might never find inspiration again, and fall asleep.

* * *

A dragon. An exhilarating ride through something cavernous and ancient, until this thing that I ride breaks through the surface and follows instead the caverns of a prehistory, seeming to see the rock that existed high up here before the wind and rain rendered it sky. I don’t know where I am, but I propel the beast forward into this confusing blue. Finally we stop, and if I look down I can see a trails of where we’ve been, translucently spiralling just over a small town and a vast warm red.

* * *

Awake… my eyes leap open and almost fall out. I blink widely.

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more to come... *withdraws ominously*