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<h1>A storage place for the absurd. Enter cautiously.</h1>

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Riddles and Scratchings:

Spin [F.S.F.] 5:20 splits dark. Up.[Masochist.] Pain first, light later.[Both.] Shoes, door, cold tiles, knees. [F.S.F.] Carpark moon. The tribe gathers.[Masochist.] Raggle-taggle, watt counters.[Both.] Clip, fail, twist, swear, knees. [Instructor.] Up. Down. Faster. Harder.[F.S.F.] Hill. Flat. Breathe. Obey.[Both.] Legs burn. Wind leaves, knees. [Masochist.] Add load. Buy altitude.[F.S.F.] Hubris knocks: thunder costume.[Both.] Saddle sneers. Time blurs, knees. [F.S.F.] Leaderboard glares. I bluff.[Masochist.] Don’t chase names, chase edge.[Both.] Sweat pools small seas, knees. [F.S.F.] Minutes turn to rock.[Masochist.] Forty-five or forty-five years?[Both.] Lactic writes receipts, knees. [F.S.F.] Second wind; suspect, welcome.[Masochist.] Stay. Breathe like rope.[Both.] Cadence holds the freeze, knees. [Instructor.] Last track. Empty the tank.[F.S.F.] White noise. Leg strobe.[Both.] Stop lands like breeze, knees. [F.S.F.] Unclip. Wobble. Laugh.[Masochist.] High-five the wreckage.[Both.] Coffee buys reprieve, knees. F.SF

Spin

Because the system names obedience professionalism. &nbsp;Because alarms build consent. &nbsp; Because the office buys your future, sells you certainty by the hour. &nbsp; &nbsp;Because the job takes Monday and your Sunday night. &nbsp; &nbsp; Because the commute is a tax with no receipt. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Because gratitude is theatre: smile, nod, “lucky to be here,” while someone clips&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; the coupon on your time. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Because we confuse need with freedom. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Because debt masks as opportunity; interest compounds on hours. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Because productivity is motion in costume; meetings are where dreams die. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Because the dividend is time; you hand it in at reception. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Because rent is due, children need shoes, visas have clocks. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Because molars tally; diaphragm counts laps; jaw locks, breath counts, ten&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; thousand surrenders. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Because craft returns you to yourself; grind leases you back in fragments. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Because some shifts restart hearts; others run the rinse: card swipes turn&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; the drum, policy foam, panels spin; the ledger dries whiter. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Because the machine will not love you for feeding it. As the only applause you trust is your own in an empty room. F.S.F.

Be Grateful You Bitch

The river hurries. The stone stays. Neither persuades the other.The moth circles the lantern. The owl watches. Feathers do not intervene.Smoke lifts from singed wings. Water rushes around the stone. Flame promises, then collects.People walk past. Some notice. Someone drops a taco wrapper.The lantern burns; then stops. The stone waits longer. The moth does not wait.F.S.F

River, Stone, Lantern, Moth

Leaf says: eatCaterpillar says: eatWind says: moveCrow asks: purpose?I say: eatShadow says: runBranch says: curlRain says: marchAnts say: trail is learnedTrail says: ants leadThorn says: map painWeb says: joinBreeze says: cut freeCocoon says: questionEdges cut shape; shape holds wind; wind carries changeCocoon says: answerBreeze says: hold fastWeb says: unspinThorn says: map balmTrail says: lead antsAnts say: trail learnsRain says: hushBranch says: unfurlShadow says: restI say: waitCrow answers: silenceWind says: stayCaterpillar says: sipLeaf says: give F.S.F.

Edges Cut Shape (2)

Leaf says: eatCaterpillar says: eatWind says: moveCrow asks: purpose?I say: eatShadow says: runBranch says: curlRain says: marchAnts say: trail leadsTrail says: ants leadThorn says: map painWeb says: joinBreeze says: cut freeCocoon says: questionEdges cut shape; shape holds wind; wind carries changeCocoon says: questionBreeze says: cut freeWeb says: joinThorn says: map painTrail says: ants leadAnts say: trail leadsRain says: marchBranch says: curlShadow says: runI say: eatCrow asks: purpose?Wind says: moveCaterpillar says: eatLeaf says: eat F.S.F.

Edges Cut Shape

I want the trophy before the try,the raise before revenue,the bio before the book. I staple bravado to a slide;call it birthright;run a tab on applause. Then the room asks, deadpan:What did you make, mate?Silence, shaved and wearing “strategy.” Customers weigh me, not my adjectives.The market’s a bouncer with a clipboard. Ship or shut up.Vesting is gravity.Value is what survives the demo. F.S.F.

Cap Table Prayer

At dawn I met a fellow bright, with manners polished thin, a ribboned smile, a handshake light; Nice in a cardigan.I gave him maps and open doors, my time, my coin, my pen; I steadied sails through coming squalls; Nice in a cardigan.He yesed and greased up every room, a varnished violin, yet tucked his spine like folded broom; Nice in a cardigan.The rafters shook, the hour arrived, the old command: Begin. Stand here for truth, keep faith alive; Nice in a cardigan.He sighed about the rules and forms, he whispered of the terms, then signed me over to the storm; Nice in a cardigan.“He called it ‘process,’ hard-required,” a duty, not his sin, and left me to the reckoning; Nice in a cardigan.Let plain speech strip the velvet mask, retire the sugar spin; not nice at all, the true cunt laid bare, Nice in a cardigan.For kindness stands when tempests roar; it holds; it will not spin; but niceness bows and skirts the door; Nice in a cardigan.He left the bill, the blame, the bruise, and painted over sin; a gentlemanly mugging done, Nice in a cardigan.The minutes crisp, the stapler’s bite, a coffee-ringed “Comply”; he slid the file, withdrew his hand; cardigan-calm. Goodbye.So mark the ones who pay a price for truth that will not bend; prefer the blunt, the tempered steel; Nice in a cardigan.Watch who can lose a vote for right and hold the line again; who stands when thunder tests the wood; Nice in a cardigan.If rafters shake and ink is dear, I know where I begin: I stand with courage, not with gloss; Kindness wears no cardigan. F.S.F

Nice in a Cardigan (or the Ballad of MvS)

Dawn punches in. Mum in the hallway; project manager of light; asks if my compass remembers north. It does. I prefer west. The day’s already full of forms. Dad rings after midnight, a church bell with opinions. “What’s your plan, son?” Same as the Romans: build a road, walk it, throw a festival at the end. We weren’t born into the easy dividend. No trust fund, only trust. Still, I’m long on sunshine futures, short on sermons dressed as care. Give me an ungoverned minute. They try to box a bloke; lanyard, compliance slide, password that expires on arrival. They love a cupboard for the heart. I prefer doors that argue back, hinges with a sense of humour. Call it childish; I’ll call it honest accounting. Balance sheet reads: Liabilities; ego, time theft, paying retail. Assets; mates who answer at 2 a.m., a lawn for running, a sky large enough to blame. I want grass-stain knees, boot thud, a sideline’s brutal choir. Not to dodge duty; …no. We clock on, shoulder the load, sign for the parcel marked “Consequences.” After hours, I refuse the small cage. Loosen the collar; let the engine note rearrange the ribcage. Laughter’s hard currency that doesn’t devalue. Here’s to busted knuckles that still vote, to sweat that counts as democracy, to the modest theology of a cold drink shared without minutes taken. They’ll call it regression. Fine; return me to first principles: run, lift, laugh, repeat. Let the sun do its cross-examination. I’ll answer under oath with breath. When the graft is done, I want the rough splendour; mates, mischief, margin. Boys; …stubborn, ordinary, unruled; just want an ungoverned minute of open air. &nbsp; F.S.F.

An Ungoverned Moment

Here we are, back on Zoom;&nbsp;two thumbnail windows of breath and worry."How’s the weather?” he asks,and the sky files a quarterly report: temperature, wind pressure, UV;as if survival required a spreadsheet of air. Small talk makes me want to scream.&nbsp;I won’t.I will smile like a hostage who learned to juggle,&nbsp;but hear me: Our mouths didn’t evolve to inventory clouds.They were built for vows and plots,&nbsp;for naming what hurts and what might heal,for the dangerous transfer of truth. Spare me the barometer.&nbsp;Ask me why I couldn’t sleep.&nbsp;Tell me where you hide your courage.&nbsp;Confess the thing you nearly did.&nbsp;Show me the idea that keeps pacing your ribcage.&nbsp;Let’s risk a sentence that could change a day. I know the forecast.&nbsp;It is always mixed.&nbsp;Scattered joy. Intermittent grief.&nbsp;A high chance of absurdity, clearing late.&nbsp;That’s weather enough. So here’s my policy: we leave the phatic at the door.&nbsp;I will nod once to the sky; courtesy paid; then spend breath on what we came for:&nbsp;the work, the wonder, the honest cut. Report this, if you must:conditions remain existential,&nbsp;visibility: human,and from now on, cut to what matters. F.S.F

A storage place for the absurd. Enter cautiously.