Once a rat like you, sprinting the great rat race—until I pulled a muscle mid-lap and limped off-course, of course. Now I write essays, make music, and sometimes doodle—amused, grumpy, and over-caffeinated—because therapy costs too much and the void stopped answering.

While the world scrolls, swipes, and sells its soul at 5G, I sit cross-legged in the rubble—harmonica in my pocket, cigar in hand, jamming a spanner in the clockworks.

I don’t trust watches, leg-spinners and men in polished shoes.

And I’m not here to help you cope or explain the Universe.

I’m just lighting a cigar in the dark.
And offering you a chair.

Pull up.
It’s going to be a long night.

P.S. Whatever it is, I am against it.