notes on working life just before quitting

And it feels as though the mist is lifting, the lines coming clear on time's sweeping hand.


In the morning grasses I crouch

Blades of light falling on fresh eyes and music softly breaking against my ear


We look like a row of four players in a table football team, faceless senseless clones, falling over at the flick of the wrist.it occurs to me that the office is maybe the most repressive ugly place since prison and contemplate the generations of millions and billions of people who have spent so much time chopping away at something they didn't want to do. it makes for v depressing reading / thinking, and I ponder it all as I pick up my weetabix and trample to the kitchen for some milk.


Crazed tiles reaching out into the distance, the road a river of noise

And bathed in a young spring sunlight

The places like this, where I end up drifting on and off on the lunch hour - called a 'lunch hour' across the country and probably the world but rarely ever actually a lunch 'hour' when you're being fisted by your boss. And that doesn't really feel too good - I like to spend a bit of whatever time I have walking outside, it helps to wean ones mind off the mechanical coil and serve a reminder of better times, like lying around all day in a dirty bedroom watching porn Cos there's nothing else to do, or clowning around town still drunk the morning after with a hard one - 1 of them which holds up for literally hours and it's like okay, what do I need to do to satisfy thee my dear.


I sit here still and wait for clocks to end

and there's little goin on at this later time

where tired eyes freeze at the lightface

and iv been sitting now for a few hours, glancing around and checking the clocks.i try and muster some laughter and lighthearted conversation with my colleagues every now and then you know, a cough here and a IT'S A REAL KITCHEN! here, and more often than not these brief tremors in the thick fabric of silence disappear without consequence and I feel yet more lonely and yet more bored.i begin checking Facebook and scrolling down the interface in a manor similar to a mad person who constantly tries to open a locked door with a snapped key.this goes on for minutes and minutes and minutes and if I'm listening to music then I get into this very odd half-listen half-read mindstate where it feels like im being slooooooowwwlly puuuuuuuuullllleed apaaaaaaaaaaart liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike t h i s


I sat in the meeting room earlier and there was letters being spun on some ghastly theme, some marketing prophesy promising a life of endless commercialism and exploitation in the near future.it pointed to technology as a means for blitzing open the fabric of peoples everyday lives and stuffing the holes of sleep and eat and texting with corporate adverts.i sat there and heated in anger, the very idea seemed a complete aberration of personal privacy and autonomy, all culled, sacrificed for the salvation of profit. my mate who gave the speech, I even tried to make the point to him after that it was in fact just pure bollocks and that he really ought to consider starting a movement to nationalise market research, which really was a trojan horse concealing a more imperative point - to rid the earth's soil of this pile of utter shit.trying to make such points didn't get me far, as I found self-deprecating laughter dressing up my every other word, which meant the conversation drew to a stamped halt before the horse could be RELEASED.


At 5.30 Friday come I feel good, a tide lapping up and over anxiety and fear, running into its own freedom. It takes years it feels to get here. Through the bitter autumn leaves lying yellow on the skull.


And on Sunday a reprise of the bad stuff sitting down on the couch watching united city hearing the pool lost and shakes of the head. Words now flowing happiness flowing, it took 10 minutes of reading weil to get here. But here now.


Sitting here the light has ridden through and has almost fallen over the hill. 3.51pm. Morning doubts which swamped my eyes have started to clear. And now still, with the scratch of guitars pouring into my ears.