What has a decade of escapism done to my mind? A jagged temperament tumbled smooth as river rock. Tethered to a life-support skein of addiction engines. Paying for the privilege, subscription, one month at a time. Every possible future towering over me demanding more money, a cavernous hand outstretched for gold, the other attaching leeches like a plague doctor. Don't dwell on discontent; earn more to buy more and all will be well. Love in the time of Covid-19. Still hunting for an expression device. The promise of a device, as if I never used a notebook and pen. There's a month, this month, for people to write entire books. There's a life, this life, for people to write entire books. A month could be enough. A day could be enough. The story of a day, an uninterrupted stretch of consciousness between sleep. In one of the Alice In Wonderland stories, or spin-offs, or plays, the flowers can speak because they are not asleep. The ground is hard and so they wake. A theme perhaps, of suffering leading to self-awareness. Must it be physical? Cold showers, lumpy mattresses, bland foods? The hunt. I'm over tattoos, or so I thought. Maybe I should get that Bloodborne tattoo of the hunter's rune. They hunt, grow skilled, go mad, get killed. Maybe if I hunt art instead of beasts I can avoid that last bit.