Fondness Makes the Heart Grow Absent.

Snap, crackle and pop.

So in love with my friends tonight, though unable to stick around a few more hours and revel in the brotherhood. Need to invent a new anti-anxiety cure that involves nothing more than my own will power. Those kids don't know how truly cool they are, bless their oblivious hearts. If you have friends, keep 'em close at hand and closer at heart. When everyone else walks out on you, the true ones will be there to prop you up. I'm a believer.

Have a badly split knuckle from an altercation with two brothers in the wee-smalls of this (Saturday) morning. Feels like it might be infected, and that could hamper my typing ability. Trust to fate it doesn't come to that, but I'm not too confident. That will teach me, I guess. At least I won't be waking up with a missing tooth and a concussion like the two wise guys who tried to take me two on one. Suckers.

But enough of this testosterone-toned clap-trap. I am lonely as all hell here in the city filled with more of my loved ones than any other in the entire world. How does that work? Fuck, am I never pleased? I'd give it all for another chance with you, lover. But now I'm being stupid. I want to tell you all - drones and diggers, saints and sinners - to never fall in love with someone you know deep down you don't deserve. If you think they can do better, they probably can. Three years down the track they'll figure it out, and you'll be left writing to yourself at midnight on a Saturday while your friends get drunk and merry, shoulder to shoulder, not a kilometer from your house. Self-belief and hoping for the best are overrated, caped crusaders.

Tim Freedman said there's no aphrodisiac like loneliness, but for once he was wrong. I don't mean to disagree with you, mate, but if you were right things would be a little easier here for me. Ha ha, how quaintly curious: truth, beauty and a picture of you bring nothing but more of the same desperate longing. I've never been able to see what's right in front of me; if the writing's on the wall, you can bet I'll be staring out the window. Maybe that's what the optometrist meant when he said I was short-sighted?

I'm going to leave you tonight, trainspotters, with a little poem I wrote. Ah, hubris tastes like rum and coke to me.

Wildest dreams, by any means
Will cover you in dry dust
And glittering gold, to fit the mould
Of all your secret lusts

And at a stretch, you could meet
Your match in me
I could be your tiny little tin man
Pass the oil can, I’ll swing my axe

And try to find my heart.