Life goes on, I suppose.
Friday night in the country of morons.
You can't help reflect on the lack of reflection in this place. Perhaps it's something to do with being afraid of what you might see.
I'm not interested any longer in mediocre entertainers, sports heroes and drug smugglers. Each to their own vocation, fine, but these do not interest me. Just as the poet interests no one else. One could maintain that notoriety or the fame game is the important thing. Or perhaps stupidity is the way. If that's the construction, I will not survive. Not on this island.
If I had a home, which, as a colonial, I don't, it is not here.
It is too late to discuss anything. The bars are closed, the minds are closed, the potential gay bashers are out and it is getting cold. Tomorrow is the same day as today. I had better make up the day after. But after what?