There’s a threadbare patchwork carpet in this motel room reeking of stale cigarettes where I spend my days. I stare at its once lurid colours now aged and coated with dust. I’m naked and lying on crumpled sheets next to a girl I picked up at a greasy spoon. The patchwork fascinates me in so […]Read more "The patchwork man"
Maturity is the death of naïvety and the birth of a listless or tortured soul. You start seeing everything either through a lens of apathy or turmoil, and the once distorted world strangely becomes clearer. You then see bedlam and destruction for what it is, and you either give up or suffer some more. You […]Read more "The dinkum oil"