Convert me to a reasonable font!

You can hear it most prominently in copy & pasted quotations, ariel, rounded and smug. They taste of cheap tea and the plastic taste you can generate from the end of a pen if you chew it minutely for hours.


(Chewed too hard, there is the plastic-snapping taste, the heat generated by the force, and of course the small matter of shards. The shards taste like being made to wait at bus-stops that have been vandalised, in the dark.)


Calibri. Coffee beans. And the sound of crunched grave. Painful to type in, painful to think in.

Up here I have secrets. The secret is learning how to push myself, learning how to hold the conversations I miss too acutely to dwell on with myself, and then, tentatively with others. Making friends: the same sensation as lurching toward a blurry shape – open armed parent? open fire?  – as a toddler in corduroy, baggy at the bum to allow for the provision of the nappy.


I seek surety. The list of important people I am not networking with is vast, as vast as the ‘think of your career’ well down which I am half-lodged, half-oblivious, but oblivious only because I don’t know anyone well enough to talk myself into a terror.


I need to convene things, set things up. I need to type in Baskerville like an idiot to keep the thoughts, poor as they are, legible to Captain Crosswires in the HMS Brainbox.

I need to breathe, but who the sweet fuck wants to meditate before they’ve reached the end of the Sisyphean to-do list?

Nearly the right place, nearly the right time. Adjustments required. At the old place too. Its all a matter of grit and tools, the sort that deform men over time down mines. Get those out, or shoulder the stone, or shatter the pen, or wherever we have ended up.