I got no sleep last night, because I got no sleep. Thats all there is to it.

I'm up right now peering through a bamboo structure because I am; and through the thin partitions that let me see everything, yet possibly not be seen, I can see them.

This family that breathes, bitches, drinks, squabbles, tires; drinks, laughs, discusses; drinks... kiddin'. Or maybe not? They are after all homed in a fishbowl with four walls painted Blue, Red, Yellow, Green, with tastes of white and black. Not forgetting of course, a partition somewhere, namely my here, with walls made of bamboo where the roaches get their hustle on.

It is in this fishbowl that people choose to drink and others choose not to. Some choose to watch others drink, and some choose not to choose. What fantasy, what fact. It's 'stoned immaculate' in fact.

It's home.

It's a high.

It's a pulse whose own pulse is this irie unusually mellow 'Come on!' that can be somewhat of a groovy blur, or a blurry groove depending on the weather, the day and the mood of the walls. It's a pulse that comes from nowhere and can only be found here.

A Jamaican pulse.

It's a tricky question actually, one that no one asked, so I won't try to explain.

I see no need to really, not right now anyway, as I've relocated to a stool that enables me to turn my back on anything and everything that isn't here. The door behind me serves as the entrance to the dark where a quiet 'Ahoy!' can be faintly heard holding your hand and leading you back in. Back to the skanky and mellow. Hot and leaky on South African summer evenings, but timelessly funky, fun and fabulous.