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Tag Archives: deadlines

Time is a great fucking motivator. You realise that, right? When you’re finite, you get shit done or you grow old regretting it. Your curse, boys and girls. And you even go on about what you could accomplish if you had all the time in the world – if you could, like, live forever, oh, the stuff you’d achieve, yeah? But you’re missing the fucking point.

When you’ve got forever, why the hell do it now? You lot have downtime in your lives, sure: slack-ass periods of apathy that might stretch into ellipses, but no matter what, yours are sped up by the next due date, scheduled event, birthday…

Ours – ours are fucking page breaks. Blank chapters. Stagnate things suspended in the slow roll of time when even the reappearance of an old acquaintance, or the consequent rush and fire of food-lust and satiation doesn’t seem to colour the void. The impetus for action, for anger – for hunger – winds down to quiet and stillness.Our kind of deadlines are gastronomical, not figurative, and even they start getting drawn thin at times like this.

Walking slumber. Reeling on through the infinite, the humdrum, the creak of time. Waiting, Waiting for something to wake us from the winter of our discontent. Something to pierce the torpor, rip into inertia, tear through the animate sleep of the dead, and warm me back into livelihood.




I’ve made myself kinda hungry just talking about this shit.




Well, fuck.

It’s been a while.

Go figure.



Who wants to meet me for a drink?…




Time is an odd fucking thing when you’ve got all of it in the world.   Upsets the pace – changes the urgency.   Procrastination is so easy when meeting deadlines is just a moment of life and death for your next dinner date, and not for you.   Time stops being the approved tick of seconds into minutes into hours into days into weeks into months into years into decades.  

It becomes beyond measure.  

Stretched and contracted into subjectivity, where a moment suddenly has space in which to live several lifetimes, and half a century snaps past with all the elasticity half a day…

For a metaphysical concept though, time gets pretty bloody tangible – it’s something you take and have and make, and lose and gain and find and keep.   And in recent – times – I’ve been messing with it fucking significantly.   See, it’s only two months since I lost the opportunity to point a certain finger at a certain acquaintance of mine, but desperate times dictated that unless I intended on falling foul of my own social networking warnings so bloody long ago, it wasn’t the time to be forthcoming about my real wheres and whens lately.


You never know when someone might be reading.

But now?


Now it’s time to update you.



…works hard for a living…

Who works on a Saturday night?   But the insatiable corporate beast is always hungry for fresh blood and new sacrifice, and if she hadn’t tried to get those fucking figures done before Monday morning, that promotion, or bonus, or whatever blood money was driving her would have been thrown away.   Of course, it no longer matters now, but for her then, there was the desire to make a – killing.   She must have heard the noise from her ninth floor office – the dull thudding.   It could have crossed her mind as she made her lone way down the dark deserted hall how cliched a horror film heroine she was being – investigating the strange noise at night.   But human curiosity is its own endless thirst, and the real-life adult-world monsters are the deadlines and work stresses and pressures to succeed.   One has to become a predator to survive, of course – stalk your client prey, rip apart your enemies’ presentations, feast upon the blood of the fallen.   She had no fear here.   And all the sound was, oddly enough, was a boy.   A boy, sitting on the railing of the conference room balcony, swinging his heels rhythmically against the perspex sheet holding the drop to the black street at bay.   Living can be hard work.   And when climbing the corporate ladder, it’s always a long way to fall.   “Who the fuck are you?” thus seemed such an inadequate question in the face of her impending bloodied death and the ensuing plummet to the pavement.   But for now she was fearless, and he was innocuous, and his answer was so simple:

I’m Jonathon.