Once, a really long time ago, I discovered that the universe makes no sense. I made me feel funny inside, like that uneasy feeling you get when you eat too many Christmas oranges. That sweet acid burning in your belly, so festive yet so strange. Your guts are swimming in Middle Eastern sunshine, grown in the oily sand of a tortured land, just in time for Christmas.


These are Morrocan oranges. Play it again Sam.

I wonder if the guy who wrote Casablanca ever traveled to Morroco. I smells like a script stacked up like matchsticks, each little nugget culled from dogeared Time magazines from before the war. How many people have actually watched the whole movie? I've never seen more than clips on retrospective shows. The people singing the French national anthem were crying real tears.

I would cry for France too, if I loved her. I know a few girls named France. I don't love any of them, but maybe I should. India is another country-girl name, but you never hear about a guy called Russia. It's all girls called China and Belize. Girl names, like ships.

I saw oreship in the channel, churning the blue water behind it green. Someday it will be obsolete, all million tonnes of it. Will it remember being useful? Will I remember being useful? I'm designed to become obsolete too.

I don't want to haul ore. I want to fly. Does metal have a memory? Can the change in my pocket remember when it lived in a star? Everything heavier than iron came from a dead star. So, the things lighter than iron can have existed from the beginning of time. Wow.

I like how sucking a balloon full of unburning star fuel makes your voice high, like a Smurf. Does the sun have a helium voice?

Do you know?

I don't know.