tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-289715822011-04-22T13:57:04.803+10:00someone halfwayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00251015269702964253noreply@blogger.comBlogger31100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28971582.post-65953915848651527502007-09-21T14:44:00.000+10:002007-09-21T14:57:19.262+10:00

It occurred to me that I was being obscure, obtuse and irrelevant. Again.To avoid doubt, this is a decoded translation of my last post:I have a dining table.I like chicken. I never answer my phone. I am soggy. I have stopped eating vegetables. I did not vote at the last neighbourhood watch election. These are all the points you need to take from that post. The rest was rubbish.Oh, and that I am

someone halfwayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00251015269702964253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28971582.post-79718266934370525102007-08-20T23:30:00.000+10:002007-08-20T23:57:48.897+10:00

No, that last post was not a suicide note. But reading it again I can see why a couple of you could have reached that conclusion. Did you imagine that I drowned in the black torrential rain inside my head? Or was it that you overestimated the extent of my courage? If it was the former, be assured, albeit unconvincingly, that I have splashed it all onto a canvas. It now hangs on the wall above a

someone halfwayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00251015269702964253noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28971582.post-55360839051541617542007-07-22T01:04:00.000+10:002007-07-22T01:09:23.831+10:00

I know this place. Yet I do not know this place. All cities look the same. I sift through photograph after photograph, peering at them under a magnifying glass forensically, methodically, then frantically, and then yet intoxicatingly. But one looks exactly like the next, and I whisper to the stars that I could be anywhere.Except that I am not. They are merely a trick of the light. What is it

someone halfwayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00251015269702964253noreply@blogger.com2