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surplus gothic

Saturday, 02 September 2017 08:14PM Writing

The Land Rover is broken, and you replace the parts. The land rover is broken, and you replace the parts. The land rover is broken, and you replace the parts. Is this the same car you were driving when you started?

Your canvas is how you express yourself. There is canvas on your car. There is canvas over your head. You live and die by your canvas. Perhaps if you had bought less canvas you could afford to eat. You live and breathe canvas. The canvas is on your skin and in your lungs. Your canvas is your canvas.

A friend claims to have seen colours that nobody else has. Colours that aren't khaki. Colours that aren't tan. You laugh. We all have that one strange friend.

There is a kayak in your house. Nobody knows where it came from or how it got there. One day it vanishes, replaced by a stand-up paddleboard.

You freeze-dry your meat. You freeze-dry your peas. You freeze-dry your coffee. You freeze-dry your friends. It's for their own good. They will last longer, that way.

The camp fridge hums. The camp fridge is cold. The camp fridge is not plugged in.

You wash the mud off your gear. Aeons pass. Civilisations rise and fall. The sun expands to engulf the earth. The universe slides towards its inevitable heat death. You continue washing.

The kit fills your balcony. Then it fills your shed, and your parents' shed. Slowly, it fills your mind. Then it fills your shopfront. Then it fills your customers' arms, and so the contagion spreads.

Inspired by Jess, who lives under me, and Lochie, who lives with me.

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