6 days in. 5 minutes out. It has to start somewhere somehow. Took a walk in between after/before, during these days/nights. The phone refuses to ring. Behind doors under self pronounced house arrest. Broken on its own, waiting for practically nothing. All the people met, heard—from the outside, on the silver screen. Yes, and the world wide web. Too many stories, overwhelming and confusing. What's real is, nothing, nobody is speaking. The unreal, the made up was supposed to be convincing. What's morally right, what's not. The mind is trashed, practically a couch potato. It stopped working, stuck and expired for right about 16/17/18/19 days. First move and without counter, waiting and counting and waiting, no results. Mister Gray, the vegetarian family in Fox, the wild things and names forgotten. It's not meant to be like that. Is a constant monologue considered a process. Is there a process when there's no communication, no contact. People known from before, and all that refusal to acknowledge such a relationship that had started and perhaps ended. It has got to be a punishment, like a karma chameleon only unlike the summer of colors. It's not at all exciting. No. Hideous peach trousers, Dunhill lights and bad pasta. "Happiness is only real when shared," he realized as he went into the wild. Amazon is not the answer. The purchase overdue. There'd got to be an exchange, like a puppy wanting all your love and affection. Stop asking and quit dancing with yourself. Move on but how, not now. Maybe you did, maybe you don't. Your heart will not be a hand-me-down. It's not even going around nor a step taken. Not up to no good, wasting time, killing time, building castles on clouds for unintended liars. The creamer is not talking. In Wonderfalls, pink flamingos, wax lions and wound up penguins talk. Most likely the representation of a love sick ass myself. The neighbors unseen except the strange african Chris, perhaps the other south asian in the opposite door that both in suspicion but never greeted and all the banging of the door behind the thin walls. Slammed or unlocked, always either. Garbage from fly tippers, screaming teens and the overcharging local only good for oyster. Tea drank at the missed temperature in this carpeted England. Homeless Santa on Oxford street and the palace that relocated half a year ago. Filled with too much drama and fantasy created by others that this reality seem more like a joke. An unwritten and unexpected journey is supposed to be celebrated yet it is rather ironic knowing its limits, ironic without knowledge. The rats, very big rats, are messing up the front lawn; but didn't dare to take a peek through those dusty blinds. The sound of the broken glass bottles against the pavement, the over-revved motorcycles as they pass in the night and the unbearable squeaking london bus brakes. If you could talk to me. 3/2/1/0 days and it's supposed to be a brand new year. Numbers, digits, however it's named; days, months, the year—a measurement of time, a representation—process. History, memory, the proof of one's existence. Life, passing by every second. Every blink of the cursor. Distractions, indulgence, the desperate desire for one's attention, for one's affection. The repulsion of reality. The adrenaline addiction. The nicotine and caffeine for taking that one stubborn distraction off the mind, always too short for comfort. Doing things you don't actually enjoy doing. Inflicting uncalled for self misery, suffocating, drowning in one's sorrows. Emotional negativism, hopeless indulgences are not experiments nor part of the process of anything—beneficial. Dysfunctional. Split. This entire 'the grass is greener on the other side' is satanic. Constantly stepping into melancholy. Since the entire world hates you already, your sorrows will be least of anyone's concern. Thus without an associate, the process which kind of is a set or series of actions directed to some end or simply the action of going forward, will no longer be a process. There can't be a process when nothing is happening and all that conceptualization of an infatuation or yearning will not be part of the process unless something is done, physically and perhaps not mentally. Be happy, be happy, that's all they tell you, that's it. Happiness, obviously, can't be taught. What makes you happy? Happiness verses pleasure. Bentham found pain and pleasure to be the only intrinsic values in the world, deriving the rule of utility: the good is whatever brings the greatest happiness to the greatest number of people. The altar of scraps and pieces of useless memories, stolen thoughts, articles of meaningless conversations, probably altered, drawings from kids I'd and will never meet, pictures of strangers and their objects, books that belonged to someone else from before, the jumper from a car boot sale—so what? What have they become of? An exhibition for no one outside of its scope. The dripping tap gets me, the constant tat from the neighbor's shower irritates. The burning cigarette with ashes falling on the keypad, the outgrown hair and the rumbling tummy. The silence getting louder itches the ears, the uncirculated air in this room with a fold-up bed and a kitchen in the cabinet and this automated spell check on text pad. I'm not in paris nor an artist, neither a writer, just a stupid student trying to do—art. And it blinks and keeps blinking till the next thought gets translated into words. Old English, Middle English, Early Modern English, then Late Modern English. The history, the process of translation till today. "…paralyzed with wonder, and the boys with fear…" It has to reach an audience. An application. A cause. A use. Okay, it has to reach somebody. (In)sane rattling gets nowhere. I'm in love with Jaye Tyler. Lyrics in a song led to reminiscences; twenty years, maybe more, sitting on daddy's shoulders, almost crystal clear. Words led to situations past, scenarios led to unpromising flashbacks, pictures about today, people we spoke to yesterday. Like a child, we wish upon a falling star; wish you weren't so far. I'd closed my eyes but watched you slipped away. After awhile, couple of days, take the time, it can only get better. What would you talk about in a conversation with her. There was a friend, maybe 2, we could talk on the phone for hours for hours to sleep, now—we haven't, at all. There is this other friend, we couldn't talk on the phone, now—we have, not on a phone. The phone is jinx. I don't use it anymore. I only have pictures, some and very limited words. Sneak out of that door. What will my mama do, what will my daddy say if they knew about you. Are you on your way. I should forget. Take it easy. If everyone experiences a different process, why is their outcome similar. The trendsetters and the followers. The cycle. The rain in the sun, the foxes roam the rainbow over the horizon. Jump into the pool. The new dimension. It's the last day of the year. Human interactions, not too good with that. New year's resolution, just gotta have one—move on.