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She was named Fall after the American season, but I faded into her. Slowly. Scented grip. Laundry detergent and damp umber. Then it was winter. Rosemary, fish curry, lentils, sprouts and whiskey. I shouldn’t have admitted I needed someone to break my fall — yet I did reveal I fall rarely so when I do, I fall hard.

It’s been raining now for a lot longer than 40 days and nights. The exact number dances and skips around my head but my mind’s not nimble enough to catch it anymore. Once lost, the precision of time can’t be restored. I calculate from the depletion of my supplies it’s been approximately two and half months since the evacuation.  Routine is a discipline that must be maintained in order to keep track of the time. Daylight no longer exists, just shades of darkness. Petroleum skies on umbered water.

It was his own instinct Jonathon could never reconcile so he let his actions haunt him. After all instinct is a reaction. A riposte to the present where split-second decisions dance with the hand of fate. And it’s the human condition to spend most of our time in the past and future — and to surrender free will when we least want it.

She lives in the country and every day commutes by train to the city for work. Each morning she rushes on the station platform like a black unicorn, just as the train departs. She steps onto the quickening regional service and deftly finds an empty seat to curl up in and sleep the hour journey there and back, like she’s greedy for lost sleep. She even sleeps through the train stops. Every night she wakes just before her stop like it’s a regular alarm bell.

Louie remembered alighting the plane feeling tired and a bit woozy. It was the multiple nightcaps that sat behind his eyes. He could feel his eyes were bloodshot and cheeks were puffy — the Grey Goose as well as the cabin pressure and mild dehydration.

The game was of no consequence. JSA rooball, under 8’s northern league. There were no finals, no competition ladder, teams were arbitrary colours and divisions and rosters determined by postcode. Play limped up the far side of the ground. The field was marked with bright plastic sports cones inside the painted white lines for local league matches later in the day.

My mum always gets fluster trying to speak the local language when vacationing abroad so she always ends up saying, ‘Grazie, grazie,’ to everyone – and everyone smiles.

Let’s meet on an Indiana Jones bridge over water; where the darkness meets the light; and I’ll pull you back into my night

Why do I like Tinder so much when the anecdotal evidence is so gruesome? Well, it’s not for the results (obviously). They’re fucking awful. But like the quintessential watering hole, Tinder at least is trying to preserve the quixotic feeling you should always charge at earthen windmills, because occasionally nature or the windmill will let you feel like you won.

Radiohead’s No Surprises was playing over the PA in the varsity bar yesterday. Until that moment I realised I had completely forgot one of the first things I loved about. A Fake Plastic Tree moment – when you revisit something so amazing yet has rested for so long you senses tune in, arrested by what feels like a new discovery.

Tinder is a rudderless round-edged, bicolour classified for everyone to broadcast their most glorified, deprecating, sane, silly, moderate, alternative, kind, truthful and untrue self – complemented by a postcard slideshow.

Patrolling the oesophagus of her temporary new home, Laurie would be feeling more ashamed if she wasn’t already feeling so sorry for herself.

The Anarchist Crab mindlessly watched a fog bank roll across a distant and uncertain sun. Through the distant roar of waves and whisking winds it could hear the Bipolar Jellyfish passionately explain its common and concerning happenstance of being beached.

A Tale of Winter and Samsara on Sullivan’s Island: The Anarchist Crab scuttled back and forth in a fury of panic. This occurred daily. Yet, it never altered or dented the vexation and venom with which the Anarchist Crab put into the monotonous task of digging a new home – because it was a job, and a joke, (which many of us can sympathise) to accommodate something out of its control.

Late last year the government’s “Work for Dole” scheme was widely shamed in the media for largely being a big failure. Figures suggested less than 19% of participants found employment after three months on the scheme and only increased the chance of finding full-time work by 2%. This wasn’t surprising to many including welfare groups because it was a placebo program which had no architecture for pathways back into the workforce. As a result it was claimed the government would effectively abandon its expensive flagship failure by restricting it to unemployed people under 25? Almost a year after The Australian reported this it seems not much has changed – an unaccountable Government demanding increased accountability of its most underprivileged constituents, while eroding the core of support and benefits it should be protecting.

On the backpacker’s road I’ve witnessed this phenomenon of moral dexterity often, especially pertaining to food, as well as drug use. It’s not uncommon for moderate backpackers to carry a libertine check list, much like the adjunct list of monuments and museums when they embark on a round-the-world trip of a lifetime.

Exposure to killing shit polarises critics and supporters much like ultra-violent video games and movies. While some claim it rots our moral fibre, making us more apathetic, aggressive and cruel, others would argue killing shit and eating what you kill can be a humbling and humanising experience.

Although the genesis for the almost all of my childhood holiday expeditions involved killing shit, the positive outcome was all the magical places we visited as a result.

Examining my history of violence and how we come to kill shit I should admit, irrespective of how influential my brother was killing shit I wasn’t blameless either.

Exploring the history of violence and my brother killing shit, ergo me killing shit I should explain our dad was the son of a farmer.