cashier tarah talks, talks, really talks, 6 hours east to sri lanka, 12 hour flight, 15 hours back, mother in law died, sorry, yeah, something got my boy out of the womb, dubai was lost as a terminal worth docking at, too much shopping too little insomnia... but i just came in for my whiskey and my coca-cola... chubby cheek tarah hasn't asked me what i do... oh you know, i write poetry, the stuff pop artists are famous for... not actually doing... i was never a serious gamer, from tetris and su doku i progressed to candy crush sagas... you know, i didn't get the multiple-choice narrative and the lost joystick freedom of up down east west, instead getting short snips of a story unfold with a quick-drawn press button action draw of the story unfold; i wish gaming appealed to me like the way advertising companies got fooled by the way television works these days: oops, paused five minutes into the show, then skim eyed the adverts past not even caring to be influenced by consumerism propaganda... i love it, i can finally watch t.v. and skip the adverts! thanks for the detergent and salt and pepper, raw materials on the ready, you improve your aesthetics elsewhere, i'll drink my cheap whiskey with cheap phosphoric barley tinged caramel cola quicker than you can say the tongue tie: eager ****** had the weakest liver bone munching onomatopoeias of ribcage rattle.