Themes:
Obsession
Eyes closed to the real




Self indulgent rambling is still putting words on the page, at the end of the day.

he puts one foot in front of the other. Sometimes that's all you can do.

The wind is blowing past. The sort that seems to drag the unwanted out in the open. A scrap of yellow paper stained with ketchup crawls along the asphalt of the street, like some dying thing. He ignores it. At half past eleven, these things can't be helped. 

His phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it. Closes his eyes instead. It can't be anything good. Instead, he takes a deep breath and lets it out with intention, slowly. He's halfway to the creek. The suburban houses crowd in, sleeping sentinels with blinds tightly closed. Their occupants are jostling each other around sinks while they brush their teeth, or drowsing under heavy duvets despite the unseasonable heat. It's as if the houses have lost what little animating force they held during the brilliant light of day. 

Among these dismembered golems, he seems a pest,