13 October 2011
Sentences break apart, into adjunct clauses I cannot follow. Rules of grammar so ingrained they apply themselves without context. The bus changes its destination, people shuffle and curse. Local councils fund dim decorative lights, attempts at cheering the municipality. The next step is knocking it down. I heard there was an empty high rise they'd reinforced the walls of and filled with water, now you can scuba dive there and look out of the windows at the dry city and the pigeon shit on the window sills. Windmill Row. Butterfly Walk. Hordes of eager cyclists. Words break into syllables, then letters, then just the alphabet out of order, wanting to line up again. There is too much noise to read. Post office, town hall, cinema. My home town is a story book. I remember about abandoning ideas of success. A page, a paragraph, a sentence, a word, a letter. To you, to say: last night I swore I had tinnitus in my left ear. A distant high pitched constancy. I opened my mouth and talked to myself until I fell asleep.