Going having fun on Gili Trawangan.
Phwoar. Equatorial and sweaty. Decorative taxi-horse-equator-Santas jingle past. Meeting new people is a drag today. Let’s get on a sun-lounger by this ridiculous, perfect, lapping, blue ocean and wait for the world to reveal itself. If we must.
Social media. Damn. It’s so addictive. Where will my head be if I’m mentally enslaved to boozy Mancunians speculating on meaninglessness? Drop the phone at base before it becomes the architect of the entire macro. ASWAD.
The floor swells in the olympic tile-prism. Tapioca keypad. I’m worried that the softly-toothed u-bend-anemone will unfurl its mouth to a place I’m not ready for. Will I find Collette? I should leave. Now.
She’s where I left her. Only this time she’s meditating. One with the sun-lounger. Either Collette or I have to stop giggling first, or this will never work. Where’s smiley-man?
“A Tom Collins and a Screwdriver, please.”
Now close your eyes.
Fuck. Veins of time. Tessellating, triangular, folding organo-planes. Ropey grab-squids. An edge of self-induced endangerment. Everything made of everything else. There, but not quite. Connect with Collette. Her eyes pour pure bliss. We rain.
Her hair has space between. She’s real. She’s on Top Of The Pops. She’s a flashy, staggered double-negative and all her stuff’s coming out. Look at her face. Thank God.
This Real Madrid lighter is the catalyst of the story. Look at it. It’s all neon and individually hand-priced. Blowtorch. There’s nowhere it can’t go. It overhears meaning-of-life contemplations. It waits in the getaway van. It falls from the collapsed plane at altitude and lands in a Japanese man’s pocket.
The sand is alive. Concentrating on the fact only creates more questions. I focus on a silhouette that dangles from a tree. It’s going well until the universe turns into oil and drains into the left hand side of my head. Another drink. Power-cut.
His eye becomes the moon. Timing. How can something so moody love me so much? The window to eternity. Dark hugs. 3D envelope.
‘Too much fackin’ perspective.’
Real men just piss. Where they stand. Stand. Crawl. Piss. Roll. It’s all the same.
Eventually, the sea comes to get us.
We arrive to Turtle Beach. Slumbering Chinese, bathed in light and unconcerned with personal space, pose for selfies. Is this some kind of sex game? Whatever you do, don’t interrupt them. They’re playing 8 Ball Pool via Android.
Corn on the cob.