I have a vague idea that I can find work up in the Pilbara.
But I’m too toxic to contemplate that.
Mentally, I’m not ready.
I have more yelling to do.
I’m gunna scream my fucking tonsils out.
Yeah, I’m rehearsing.
Not only am I crew bossing myself.
I’m also the lead singer.
My audience?
The desert.
If I haven’t got a hoarse voice after a good screaming session the next day, I’m just not screaming hard enough and will try and scream even harder.
I’m reaching those alarming notes you only hear coming out of a jungle, of a man condemned to death.
I’m not hearing any bullet shots.
I’m moving too fast to hear anything.
I’m in my capsule.
Scream.
Scream.
And scream some more.
Do it.
Steve Job’s did.
Apparently it’s a therapy in new age circles, like yoga and scent therapy.
Either way, I’m yelling for all the injustices perpetrated against me.
I’m not keeping company with polite society.
Polite society?
A fucking menagerie.
Pigs feeding off shit.
Goats fucking lonely housewives.
Jackals looking for flesh to substitute their vegan diets.
In the desert, I’m safe.
It’s real.
The desert never tells.
It remains silent.
In that silence, I screamed the scream of death.
And this time there was no one hunting me down.
