it seems all this is just an attempt, albeit a poor one, to explain things to myself. meaningless, useless things. stuff beyond any understanding. my understanding.
it’s almost midnight and i need to be at work early tomorrow and i do this.
the fishiness of the fried whiting i had for dinner clings to the back of my palate. and i hem and haw whether to drop this entry and sleep or power back on my laptop, hoping to coax out the island boy grammar i was told i will always have out of my salty tongue.