For whatever strange reason, I seem to mostly write late at night. Sometimes – if I am so taken – I might sit and compose a post in the early evening, but never in the morning and almost never in daylight. With the exception, perhaps, of periods on the road in places where internet access sets with the sun. But the ideas of ‘daylight’ and ‘daytime’ in England are ambiguous at best, and often have very little to do with each other.
The Karoo is hot. Like fucking sun-massacred hot. The land where God hates the trees. She loves only the scrubby, fragrant bushes that refuse to die and the Orange river. The leviathan that cuts its way through the flat line of the horizon like an old boxer – no speed remains, only power.
I dunno sometimes. It feels unfair, y’know. But I can’t pretend nobody told us. That we didn’t know it was coming. Just this morning in the paper, with those strikers gunned down like that… It was like bits of ash drifting in on the breeze. We’re going to watch the world burn. Hell, we’re going to be the fire.