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Dreamt a long dream for only four hours straight, felt like an eternity in an abyss of subconscious nightmare and fantasy. The congested mattress stinks of sweat and brine. The harmonious, jazzy ringtone of a cellular phone filled my ears with discord. It is almost half past two in the afternoon. The eyes attached to my head, fiery and blood red, quiver with lack of sleep, bouncing up and down, back and forth. Unlocked the phone to discover almost a dozen missed phone calls, half a dozen left text messages, and one or two voicemails. Too lazy to bother, already especially aware of the intentions. Immediately rose up to a disruptive error that plagued his streaming tunes on his LED. What a bother. For every second wasted breaking the comfort of the illusive dream, an angel bleeds from its ears, all sad and weary of the tragedy that befell the sodding conflict of the man with a mission.

'I must have my ears,' I remember telling myself as I sat at my bedside, browsing for some luxuries while fixing the earlier error. 'But then, I needed to learn how to spend less quid and earn more.'

That is quite a challenge I bet for myself. Neither would I believe to succumb to this early on, but remembering as to what actually occurred last October, The No Fap occasion, I wouldn't be so confident about anything anymore.

Food was scarce, the kitchen polluted with streaks of myself, aghast and unintended. I had to make do as I should. All the more the following weeks then, when a pair of cans drop by to pledge allegiance to my sorrow. My heart is marred with mixed emotions, considering my lack of finance and costly indulgences, and even now there shows no signs of stopping. Hygiene was the next step of the itinerary, unorthodox as well as all the other weekends, showing no purpose and function. Productivity was always a lingering question and for a good reason. The demands of the soul continually hungers without providing in return, greed and malice consumes us. A diune of the body and soul, zen to many, and purgatory to some.

There is no more need to touch the self, for that moment refers to himself 'Himselves', being many and one both. The one questions and the other answers. The perfect form of man.

Feet forms of parabola in remembrance of the primer, going back and forth the same distance as before, arriving at unequal times, in very different circumstances, catching different moments at the most opportune minutes, inadvertently causing a paradox in the process, trapping himselves within the parabola of the cycle room. The wheels pumped with air, all the more providing great comfort for future travels, giving lightness to the unbearable exertion of each pedal rotation. With luck, and not a moment sooner, a mother with her daughter in a trolley passes by, and hissed at her with woeful intent. She looked back at me with bewildered eyes, trying to juggle the seriousness associated with the situation. In the end she proved useful in releasing me from that dungeon of rubber, and I smiled at her, feigned interest with the daughter's beauty which I did not even care to see, and for her kindness that was commonly fragile amongst the neighbourhood.

This little snicket walked on, thanked the woman and her maker at once, and said his farewell vows only to meet a blockage just across the hallway where a man equal to my size (uncommon to fair-skinned people) was possibly handcarrying someone else's flat, also possibly for reasons of relocation. Similar to what happened to himselves' flatmate a couple of weeks back, whose now's heir inherited himselves' slowly building wrath, solely because he was all testosterone and half of it just the same. Yet the woman who stayed with himselves longer finally arrived from a couple of weeks' travel and vacation, who got herself a tan and a whole new, totally glowy demeanour, and even though our relationship was tense, she was there to leave me an annoyingly courteous 'how are you' that barely meant anything, so I replied in return an 'I'm fine' answer which barely made a scratch on my hiney. Finally I moved on to greater (not really) things, and there I decided to return to the rubbery dungeon where I rested my legged wheels, and met the desire to mobilise my instincts.

'How many hours?'

Scratching my head in asking. 'Hopefully just one.'

The wheels moved better than I had hoped, all it needed were some slight modifications and calibration. Silly of himselves to worry about such a trivial thought.

Across the bridge my wheels met some adversaries, and they proved quite formidable in our struggle to maintain first lead. Brazil held a party from across the green swamp, subwoofer all around buzzing everyone passing's ears into oblivion, it would affect the next four miles of travel. Beside an swamp of green were a swamp of green men, with white phallus out and wet, shamelessly erect, and a disgusted look upon my face that met a beauty just beside the beast. I look away and she met my gaze. I look again. Finally we locked into a quick ecstasy. The urge to just pull her and her skirt down proved to much, and yet I recalled, moved away from the horror of tight spaces.

The only regret was that I failed to have a grasp of the mammary shape and left.

Hippos on parade everywhere causing distress to the traffic in plain sight. 'Colour! There's too much colour!'

Too much colour in a country full of shades of grey. Only thing closer to this that I can remind myself with was a homosexual beauty contest. Ave Maria, she said, or he said.

Clamped my thoughts to despair and engaged my man-purse where my empty notes sleep. I foresee conflicting prophecies of me in limelight in the future, probably maudlin and foolish.

Finally a place to gather my thoughts, such a rare find, and only on the overground where this resides. A pity rests, a cough depletes. Now able, there it is. My mission and vision. It's all coming to me. A little bit fuzzy. But it's getting there! Yes! I can feel it!


On the overground, no one can hear you fall. Except for the other two hundred stiff bodies laughing at your expense. I picked up my wit that scattered all around. 'Are you all right?' he asks, his eyes half-spent crying in his thoughts of ridicule.

I did my usual 'tsk' gesture, moving my head left and right pretending to not be aware of how it occurred. 'Yes, I'm fine.' And he went on with his own business, but signaled to his mate and his mate's lass the sheer amount of mindlol that occurred through my own stupidity.

I glance to my left to see a tall, white man sharply staring at me in the eyes and smiled, so I smiled in return while wanting to slap him despite our height differences. I would, in all seriousness, confidently win that fight if ever. That battle would have served as my initiation of rights to consider myself a worthy relinquisher of spoiled cultures. I would also break many bones in the process, but it would be something worthwhile, and then I would go on changing the world.

That is all wishful thinking. The same thinking that has been occupying my mind for the past artistic year or so, as much as I love to delude myself thinking.

I wouldn't break bones really and thankfully so.

More than the storming of minds, I found myself addictively feuding words with strangers on the web, making friends in the process while gathering losing streaks of my own. Tensions build even in vocabulary, as it proved quite challenging and infuriating. Where do these thoughts come from? Or have my luck ran out at the mere sight of struggle. I pawned many a novice in my lifetime for a reason, and will continually do so until such time the world runs out of fools (which, undoubtedly, like the gloom that engulfs London, will ever go away).

''Attaboy!' she said, and included a laughing emoticon igniting good senses between us both. 'You're only 32 points behind. That's doable. My luck's running out. I have almost all one pointers.'

Bah! Such a prude bitch, I reckoned, mocking my ever-sensitive pride. I replied with slight aggression. 'My mind is completely blocked though and I can't get it to work as I would've wanted.' There included a sad emoticon as well to show my discontent for her mockery.

She would not respond.

I was trailing 32 points, that's quite a huge margin. With only a few tiles left I gathered all the impulsive whim and made up a ball of knowledge with it extensively draining what small things left in my mind that required cognition. The next turns gave us one-digit points, up until I, with all puzzling thoughts swirling, was successful in giving her a 40 pointer. Equally stunned as she was, I kept my cool and felt butterflies guffawed in my viscera. as if the trickster cherubim from the skin finally acknowledged my being a victim.

She finally replied. 'Not feeling sorry for you, by the way.'

This brash trollop's at long last getting what's coming for her. Ha!

'You made me win,' I told her. 'Let's do it again.' That last one included a winking smile at the end to show my  sincerity, or lack thereof.

That was the last time I heard from her. Perhaps one of these days she'd look for a rematch. I quite liked her in the end, despite her face on the photo seemed all puffy and rotund, hidden behind the comfort of bigass sunglasses.

It almost made me forget about the mate's mate's lass' absolutely sexy duster, and if a wind would pass by at that moment would glare at me a divine cameltoe and buttsmile in bloom. This... thing... behind my pants, it speaks, and only speaks in riddles, and only in moments of perversion, preoccupied only by lust and gain. My entire form shrugged as a response to the lost etiquette. The only thing missing was sputum dripping from my skin. I could picture it from a mile away, giving advice to me in the form of a shaman, a native conqueror of the world's long lost essence. I needed to recharge my delicadeza and did just that.

Switched stations on the next stop where I stooped low to throw away attention. There a thought came to me. The crime of schizophrenia. It's the perfect formula.

'A man who would never smile and is only happy when he does his perversities.' That's it! 'Only that when his victims see him smile, they'd never be sane enough afterwards to worry about whether he did.'

A cause for alarm: Attention. Arson. Libel. Kleptomania. Murder. Lust. Friends and families.

The greater good of the necessary evil. Prithee, dost thy thought lull himselves back to slumber?

Would turn his wheel of fortune from whence he came, parked on a street where fools rush in. Groceries! This time not only for himself.

Fusilli! Fusilli!

Quite heavy, in fact. Diminished my fashion sense tenfold. Exercise for my blazing bicep, at the very least. He lost the calls. Left to ignore. Building up the fatigue.

Silly fusilli!

I finally waved my arms goodbye to outside contact, passed through the small fair that screamed deaths of youth, over the falsely peaceful leaves of park where a Ferrari was parked. Cunt, whoever the buffoon. Manboys from mother country sitting at a bench probably listening to ghetto rap watching me and whispering, 'This son of a fucking FOB.'

Reached the outskirts of a demented borough, parked somewhere (slightly) safe, and climbed the stairs letting to bad vibes. 'Where the flying fork is the console box?' Gone, reckoned to be thrown to the bins. Made way across the branches of laundry into a door that smelt of rotten cheese. Into it I achieved the redemption they himselves were looking for.

Kicked into the door with no signs of life... yet. Thank the heavens!!

Peeked at the refrigerator, munched all there is that resembled food. Success! 

Prepped the fusilli, formed a sly grin across my face, and went on with my gluttonous ways.

And then I scavenged from my dream earlier a lost quote that got buried deep into my Christopher Nolan-esque extraction of subconscious. 'Through the eyes of a child, the world seems magical. There's a sparkle in their eyes. They've yet to realise the darkest of their souls.'

In the end, only himselves appreciate the bounty of the fusilli. 

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