Having lived and subsequently described my life using other peoples descriptions of life, it is a joy to realise a cliche in its first light.

Life moves too fast
Too live in the past
they tell you.

And this isn't usually understoond until you're having second thoughts about holding hostages at the bank. Three hours too late, I'm afraid. However, knowing how swift and accurate the SWAT teams are at cleaning up carbage like yourselve, you can't help but think about things. What if I'd just kissed her? What if I'd just ran away?

What it it is only money?

Three and half minutes to live! You crazy fucking criminal, how are you ever going to write your novel in this space of time? Write it on the backs of bank notes in plaster and ash, leave your legacy to the CSIs. Pay attention right now, this is experience that you can't buy.

So then what if you wake up in your bed and you realise that all of this was just a poorly constructed metaphore? Karloff, get my gun! I have some realisations to realise!

On my walk to work today (about 30 mins ago) I followed breadcrumb trail consisting of an old video cassette of Bladerunner. This was about quater of a mile long. At the end of it was a crazy old man with one of those litter picking arm things, he was wearing a fishing hat and he snapped at me with the litter picker.

Hey Hamish, how were you born?

Throught the barrell of a gun.

Me too, man... me too.

Hey Karloff, did you die at war?

No... you know I didn't. I killed myself.

In the 60s.

Yeah.

With a chisel.

Yes.

Karloff, for a bad dream, you're surprisingly pleasant. A little gross to look at, but that's okay.

Thanks.

Are are you sure you didn't die in war?

No mate, I'm not.

You're not what?

I meant I wasn't sure. It was meant to-

Oh

-It was meant to sound profound but now you've fucked it up. It was like a statement about my inner war.

Sorry.

Ernest Gordo

Ernest Gordon and a semester abroad.

If I was a prisoner of war I'd cry every night but then slowly transform like a story until people would tell other people that someone once told a friend that someone else got in my way and I ripped their eyelashes off. Then I'd storm the main gate and die in a hail a bullets. My name would possibly forgotten, depending on the attentiveness of my prison-mates or how catchy my prison nickname is. I don't really mind what is, so long as it ends with "The Knife". Or starts with "Crazy Eyes"

However, I'm not in prison and I do not exist. Not in a permanent sense, I'm more like the flame on a match or a cigarette lighter. I've always felt like I was meant to destroy the world. All small flames have the same desire, we want to burn more. On a related note, my name means "The Son Of Defilement".

"Man wants chaos. In fact, he's got to have it. Depressions, strife, riots, murder, all this dread. We're irresistibly drawn to that almost orgiastic state created out of death and destruction."

That's all very nice but quite wrong. If you'd be paying attention, Linklater, you'd know that self destructive man just wants everything to stop.

On an unrelated note, I can't stop dreaming of Nikola Tesla.