Bring your own salt.

 Benson, in the combi on the way to a midweek game: “ Ag man, don’t worry so much. They don’t get it. I mean, unless you’ve swung for the fences, how would you know?” I mean: you just won’t get it unless you’ve been there. Unless you’ve taken a pace delivery to the box, and your eyes watered as you walked it off, fighting to keep your face neutral, to give nothing away . Of course – of course – everyone will resonate with the writing in their own peculiar way, because how could I possibly know how these words will ring against your experiences, the way it feels in your head when you read them? But. The way it feels to hit a six. Now that’s quite something. The way it feels to be the opening batsman, who tells himself he’s one of the best in the team, but he’s scared to hit lofted shots. He always angles the bat down, settling for fours, avoiding the risk of being caught out. Tells himself his responsibility is to stay in as long as he can, that his job is to keep

the box glows blue channels one to seven billion we are not even present flicker, flicker, a taper for your dream cushioned consensual comas it's nice flick, flick, flicker the box glows blue the background noise squaring some view by standard definition limiting horizons the box is you the telly, who knew? aloof on a pedestal the box glows blue blankly witnessing divorce its quality is true it's quality the box glows blue Channel 666: Another standard – hand – held – remote – control. With buttons. Rectangle horizons set sunsets without warmth. Serial cycles: death, credits, rebirth The recent eternal, those pesky men of straw are at it again "Tonight in Hegel's Dialectic see truth being bludgeoned by hillbillies, Survivors, <celebrity_name> , <politician_# 93419 > , the News at 7, <CurrentPropagandaPiece> . Don't miss it!" …at home on the couch, with filters wide open

Taken in October 2015 from Skeleton Gorge, looking back over the southern suburbs of Cape Town. Views like this bring up a certain mood in me. I can sit for hours and just stare at images like these, lost in the memory, or letting the thoughts ebb and flow. ... For more photos, see my deviantArt profile . 

He sat in a patch of weak winter sun. Lukewarm at best, poking from between clouds. He wanted to feel its warmth, he wanted to have the heaviness inside him thaw. Not today sighed the wind. Not today. Because what is life really but some chronology of insanities? One blind leap of faith after another, until one last leap ends in oblivion. Tiptoeing on the shore. Because what else is there to do? The tail end of your twenties, and already you feel you've lived too much. You've imagined yourself into the lives of almost everyone around you. Found them lacking. Just some people on the internet excite you, some glimpse of what life could be, what it has to offer, what you've already tasted. But now you're in the 9 to 5, by your own choice you've sold your soul. To make another man rich, giving him the best of you, you labour like a prostitute, and what you have left are the crummy evening hours, the darkness when you're drained af