"He keeps chipped marbles in his pockets..."

 I'll tell you what's brilliant, trekking through old word documents I have tucked away deep within my computer's depths. I'm starting to think I was much more imaginative when I was 18/19, it was a time of excitement, hope, and vegemite on toast. My bedroom looked much the same way as it did now, small pieces of luxury carelessly thrown amongst the jumble and clutter I gather from here, there, over there, around there, under there or somewhere else entirely.  

Looking around now I can spot one such guilt ridden bastard; a Uni Qlo bag full of rubbish, I dip my hands inside and pull several things out at once. A tape measure, an eccles cake in tinfoil, a 20 pence piece which seems to have been bound with the remnants of a mint aero; as if it's forming some variety of minty coin hybrid (mass market potential?)

I think, in a way, this room is much like the contents of my tiny head. 

It's badly decorated, it leaks, it smells of coffee and tea at the same time, and worse of all, it has me inside it jabbering away about nonsensical jibber-jabber jimbits. 

Much of it is worthless, and should have been removed of a long long time ago, much of it should have been thrown out alongside those dreams of being a Time Travelling Pharmacist, curing scurvy or cholera wherever it reared it's filthy hide. 

I also dreamt of being an architect, albeit not a time travelling one, I found that present day materials were much better for forging football stadia and massive massive igloo palais. 

Alot of it should be treasured, I've pages upon pages of ridiculous writing and terrible illustrations that I couldn't help but keep. I've got favourite mugs that don't belong to me, they bear a royal coat of arms and never fail to make me laugh when I'm drinking scalding hot tea. 

I have pictures, letters, postcards, ball bearings, screws, batteries, receipts...

I'm convinced even the holy grail lies somewhere within these dirty walls, however I'm not interested in finding it. Finding it would mean this room would become a shrine, and I can't be dealing with that, not when I've got 4 minutes to catch a train and some bloody pilgrims are in my way crying all over the laminate floor and reciting the lords prayer over and over...

Attached is a strange piece of 'creative' writing I found inside my selfish and altogether witholding computer. It's called THERE IS NOTHING, it's absolute insanity on my part, I think I wrote it within a few minutes. It's about nothing. Quite literally, there's no metaphor or allegory, it's simply nothing.  

It was my attempt to be as stupid as I could possibly be, which is very stupid indeed. So by all means read it, but don't expect Kafka or anything. There will however be improved creative writing winging your way. 

David.