Special K Is The Cornerstone Of Any Nutritious Breakfast

It’s fucking Spring, and I need to write something

I can feel the cold of the worked steel on the base of each hand. It’s what they call a MacBook ‘air’.

I decided to work outside as it’s a ‘nice’ day. That’s when I fell headlong into the black square known as the K-key. It lies in the Eastern hemisphere of the keyboard between the galaxies of J and L. It’s my own fault for staring at it too long and examining it in an insulting way, saying things in an Irish accent like,

You’re just tree fukin lines arranged in a posh way, yer fucker.

It showed me who is boss by sucking me deep into its atmosphere.

It’s what the ancients used to call a K-hole before K and Ecstasy became victims of the next generation’s desperate urge to rename fucking everything they come across, like walking on grass — earthing and eating an orange — oranging. Some might call it a reverse form of verbism — transforming a noun into a verb. I call it fuckwitting.

So now I’m looking around with my non-existent eyes at this unusual K-hole world.

It’s not round like an ordinary world.

Dang, I wouldn’t say it’s any shape whatsoever cos it has no dang edges this thing. A shape needs at least one dang edge to contain the space and render it magically different from the identical space on the other side of the edge.

In the case of space, some brown-toothed scientist, drunk on brainwaves, might discuss the size of the universe since the fucker’s mind is still caught by the illusion of an edge.

But the end of something requires, by nature, the start of something new. If there is nothing new, then there can be no end. Without beginnings, there are no ends. That’s what this K-hole is showing me. Dang.

It’s Wednesday, and I’m sitting outside enjoying the spring sun with an azure sky so rich that I want to drink the fucker like a deep blue cold beer.

But the part of me that feels desire is still down the K-hole, so I don’t need to have it…