The tabloids in my home town recently went nuts by stating that I was dead. As with most things written in a(ny) newspaper, this piece of claptrap isn't even close to resembling the truth. Furthermore, I have photos to prove it.
Stay tuned for visual encounters of the two dimensional kind.
Message found in a bottle on a lawn on North Terrace:
Trapped in a vacuum of permanent marking.
In an octopus' garden.
Can't discern left from numbers.
Three-eyed man.
Smiles nervously to a Vegemite Sandwich.
Crusty words slurring into drainage system.
Substitute led refill cartridges with poison darts.
Natives not native at all but restless all the same.
Pygmy. Pygmy. Pygmy.
Must go to the market.
Food mocks me like socks do sandals.
Europeans have wasps (too).
Many times, too many times.
The nips are getting drier.
Dry zones in wet tropics.
Northern parts of the nether region.
Code. Code. Code.
Crack.
Bum.
Crack.
Smoke.
Crack.
Pipe.
Weezer. Weezer. Weezer.
He's Ebenezer Goode.
Carl. Carl. Carl.
Kill 'em all.
Metallica. Metallica. Metallica.
Exit light.
