10:08pm and I’m in the mood for writing poetry, instead I find myself writing about wanting to write poetry. I also want to go for a walk in the rain, or climb into bed with my headphones and write in my ratty sketchbook. I wonder if I’d be writing this if I were in bed with paper and pen? I can see all this in my thin handwriting, like insect legs flattened on the page. Long black strokes and loops, decorated by doodles of starts and swirls around the edges of the page because that’s what my hand does while it’s waiting for my brain to think of a word or phrase.

I don’t think I’d be writing this. It’s too disposable, and the sketchbook is reserved for rather less arbitrary thoughts. I often think about throwing out that tiny little pocket-sized notepad for something fancier, something that isn’t gratified with my ex-girlfriend’s name on the cover in permanent ink. I don’t know why I keep it, and I sure as hell don’t like the little sting every time I see the name Anna followed by a big heart. It seems so juvenile but I was an adult, albeit only just, when I wrote it. My thin dead insect legs aren’t enough to cover the bold letters, no matter how many times I furiously scribble over it.

10:17pm and still no poetry. Harder to write poetry when everyday looks exactly the same. I have to crane my neck around corners to find something interesting, while it used to be as simple as having my eyes open. I’m not complaining though, we all gotta work, I know it. We work so we can sleep well, but we can’t sleep because we gotta work. It’s a conundrum!

Earlier tonight I went for a quick drive to fill up my gas. It was raining very softly and I quite enjoyed the drive. On the way home I made a slight detour and pulled over in an empty car park. I stood outside my car for a moment and looked around. People are always saying ‘stop and smell the roses’ but I have roses at my house which I smell every morning, quite indifferently. It was raining quite softly so I wasn’t standing in the rain getting saturated. Standing in heavy rain is only good for being romantic. Or if you need a shower and you don’t have any water at your house I guess, but then your neighbours give you funny looks. Bugger ‘em.

10:24pm and still sitting here at my desk, empty coffee mug to my right. Go that coffee mug in Times Square, which may just be my favourite place on Earth. I was born and raised in Australia, but I’ve never felt as comfortable as I did in New York. Something about pale skin and a partiality for rain and cold weather set me apart from my fellow Australians. Me mates seemed to enjoy L.A though. Go figure.

Getting closer to going to bed. I don’t have a goal for what I’m writing here, I just figure it’s not a bad idea to purge ones thoughts every now and then. And you know what they say; one man’s trash is another’s treasure. Though if you manage to find anything remotely noteworthy in this tosh I’d be truly astounded.

10:30pm. A round figure if I ever saw one. Here’s hoping I dream of a mermaid tonight.