the easiest way to a man’s heart is through a hole in his chest.

yes, something’s the matter with the spirit, and i don’t mean the geist.

it may just be that old thing. what we try to do at night.

after work, which i do quite a bit of this close to new year’s because there’s SOMEthing everybody wants to get done before the year’s end, there is barely time to sneak in a few winks before the new day’s demands weigh me down so utterly that i feel like a sherpa carrying the himalayas.

what to make of myself?

i want to reach out but my arm and digits are covered in a translucent film that only i can see. and only i know that i cannot touch. i cannot voice my plight. i get only laughs. or bewilderment. every attempt to explain is doomed.

i try to convey some of this to sampaafulhu who’s next to me on the sofa. she’s deep in candy crush. i think it’s a metaphor.

‘what’s the goddamn point?’ i ask her. ‘tell me, quick! before i hurl myself off the balcony.’

‘i just want the highest score,’ she responds without looking up from her massive iPhone. it is grotesque and covers her hands entirely. but then she does have dainty hands.

a human connection is beyond my means and this prettiest of women is lost to me in the pointless desert of the virtual. how many people have been in my position? unable to connect and not least because the attention of other has been hijacked by a wayward sideshow of creepy modernity that subs flashes of animation and sound with intimacy?

i walk into the kitchen. at least i am at home here. i breathe in deep, and exhale gently. and then…

brioche. grilled turkey breast. lettuce. caremalised onion. kewpie. dijon mustard.

no, it’s not an antidote to the midnight of the self. but dear god does it help.