So stop that. It's just a little black hole. A jagged ceramic edge. By the time I'd opened my program to gush my sensational revelations I'd lost it. That happens to me.



So we skipped across roads and dodged angry drivers grinding their teeth at us through wind visors. We had no where to go, but people watched us anyway; the way people watch manic showmen feeling their way over tightropes. What a rush girl.



You have these moments of euphoria where you think you've understood something implicit, something altogether bound in our universe. Then you have a bottle of Pinot and you can't write a single thing of interest. You have the desire, oh yes - but where is your revelation now man? What props do you pretend to be able to flourish in front of us? How are you going to revolutionize thought and human understanding again?



Phlegm is what is it. What a gangling word. A forlorn red headed kid crying in the rain.



I remember the hay barn and the cold iron, corrugated and rooted in Australian earth. The smell of goat shit and turkey feathers. What a pure and healthy aroma. And that mixed with the spice and sticky allure of the peppercorn tree. Old man peppercorn indeed. I'll write a story about this place one day.



Meaning is secondary to. Huh?