Episode 7: No Greater Motivator.

15 years of continuous mental training has lead him up to this point. 15 years of conditioning, relapsing, recovering, progressing inch-by-inch, never losing sight of his target, of that ultimate prize.

15 years ago, he would have thrown a tantrum, rejected what was in front of him, retreated into his own fantasy world. But every path has its origin, even the circular journey has a genesis point. From those murky, innocent beginnings he gradually learnt to focus his energies into more productive pursuits, making sure the fruits of his experience can only benefit himself and others.

He was careful not to perceive his new information as bad news; they were merely facts which he had hoped not to be so. As here, as always has been, as always will be - it was all a matter of perspective.

In 15 years, he had learnt to save his emotions for the gleeful days. Gloomy days are best dealt with his hyperlogical superpower. It was a most efficient allocation of energy for the lazy soul.

"Although," he thought to himself. "I still have a long way to go..."

He read his own opening paragraphs.

"..for instance - I should start focussing my energies into writing more coherent paragraphs. Why do internal monologues only sound so good in my own head? Dangit."

Episode 6: All Meta, No Awesome.

He had to admit it, he didn't know what he was doing. The writing was sporadic, there was no overall theme to tie anything together, hell - there wasn't even a coherent storyline.

"Damn, shoulda opened with the ninjas." He thought.

But it was too late, he was already into the sixth episode and there was yet a rhythm to be found.

"Ahh well, just keep those fingers dancing and maybe something will turn up." He hoped.

He thought to the the stories of the great classical writers, often documented as having produced their best works with the help of sensory-altering substances.

"Right, where's that cough medicine?"

Episode 5: Cold Reading.

10:42am. He leaves the apartment, hoping the two-sizes too large suit jacket is sufficiently hiding the creases in his only clean smart shirt. Only 12 hours previously, that same shirt had been rolled up tightly at the bottom of his oversized duffelbag, where it had sat for the past three months.

11:51am. Shoes squeaking across the lobby, he pushes the button for the twenty first floor.

"Meh."

His defence-mechanism kicks in; Downplay Everything.

11:56am. His contact comes through the glass doors, young, firm handshake, crisply suited. Walks with the hop of a person eager to impress.

"Ahh."

The man smiles internally. This was going to be easy.

Episode 4: The Battle.

The air hung still in the room, he had closed all the windows. He needed to keep the breeze out, to shutter out the rest of the world. The intruder was in there, with him. He couldn't see him, though the room was small, he knew he was not alone.

He rocked onto the balls of his bare feet, relaxed his joints and allowed his knees to bend into a coiled spring. His fingers wrapped tight around his weapon, poised and ready.

His toes traced the cool seams in the floorboards, he made his way into the centre of the room. Although his head made no sudden movements, the man's eyes were a buzz of activity, darting this way and that - searching for signs of the unwanted visitor. Every so often he would catch a glimpse of movement in the light, a rush by his ear, but it was like the intruder was toying with him.

"Catch me if you can." He caught the errant thought in mid-air.

He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. One hand instinctively reached over to the opposite elbow and rubbed a fresh wound, the mark of an earlier attack, the thrown gauntlet.

Then, he heard it. A buzz by his ear. A short crackie emitted from the weapon as he swung in the direction of the noise. He opened his eyes, but he had missed.

Suddenly he heard the sound again, this time by the window. He spun around and turned towards the light.

"Gotcha!"

The intruder was trying to get out, unable to open the window. Realising the range was no longer appropriate, the man dropped the electric-tennis-raquet-fly-swat from his hand and reached for the magazine lying on the window sill.

In half a second, the magazine was pinned vertically to the window via natural adhesives.

As the man walked into the kitchen to fetch a damp cloth, he instinctively reached over and scratched the bump on his elbow.

"Damned mozzies."

Episode 3: Terrible Music.

The tarmac stretched out in front of him like a greasy eel, enveloped in the east asian night. Kilometre after kilometre lit up a few metres at a time by the single headlight of his 180cc custom-bored Yamaha. The local name for this particular motorcycle was 'The Roaring Lion', tonight it was showing the audience of the mountains its full throaty rumble.

He passed a speed limit sign that said 25, he looked at his dial, 85.

"Hmm...", he thought, "I can go faster."

The 17 year old engine pitched a little higher and rattled a sleeping dog in the road.

Shifting his weight left and right he leaned into every corner he could see the end of, a few he couldn't and fully trusted his life to those squeaky old drum brakes recessed in the hub of both wheels. Life was good right now. Life was simple.

"Just one thing, just one little niggle." He chuckled. "Why on earth did I decide to swap ipods? What is this emo-grunge-rap monstrosity ringing in my ears?"

"Must go faster."

Episode 2: It's All About The Hyphen.

"Whoops", he thought to himself. He had missed a day. Not a good start for the new bi-weekly format.

Ahh well, he was riding halfway across the country at the time of the intended publishing date. Good enough excuse.

The roadtrip was going well, bikes were running good, hostels were nice and clean, they were making good time on all their destinations. He made a good running mate. But that was always the case, he'd always been a good co-pilot - it wasn't that hard; just find the gaps, be the one to plug them up.

The destinations didn't even matter to him. It was the journey he loved the most. That buzz of travel was his protective blankie. He'd never be able to explain what it was that enamoured him so much about the movement, he could only hope to give others a sample and find like-minded souls of the enlightened spirit.

"Who else would understand this feeling?"

"Ahh, isn't the search half the fun?"

"Shaddup, cheeky bastard."

Episode 1: A Stream of Consciousness.

And so it begins. The story starts here, with him, sitting in another person's apartment, laptop sitting in his lap, gently irradiating his netherbits.

He was not a good writer, an apparent over-enthusiastic use of commas and a mentality that can only think in straight lines does not a great novelist make.

But this is his project. The rest of the world be damned.

Suddenly, ninjas-


...No, too soon. "You can't blow your load in the very first episode." He thought, "There's gotta be some kinda build up, an element of world-building. Literary foreplay, if you will."

As he sat there, reading the words he had just written, he hoped the fact that it had been a total of 366 days since he had last had sex would not be too obvious in his writing.

Damn.

The year had started off whimsically for the man, equal parts bittersweet, equal parts nonsensical, equal parts awesome. For lack of a better reason than; he wanted to be with Happy People - the man spent the first minutes of the new year playing video games and watching for non-existent fireworks over a harbour from the balcony of a five star hotel.

It was a pretty good night.

The first few days of the new year filled up quickly with all-too-brief meetings and catchups with friends and family from all over the world who by some cosmic serendipity had all happened to be in the same general geographical location at the same time in the same reality. *breathe*

"Perhaps, it is better like this." He thought, "It's always fun catching up, all of the hugs, none of the inevitable lethargy."

"No." Intoned his internal monologue voice. He waited for a reason, but none was given.

"Stupid, obtuse subconscious." Bounced his impulsive voice. "At least spit out a flowchart or something."







As the man sat on the plane on the third day of the new year, he contemplated the messy tail-end of the previous year. Another story for a another episode (the inevitable flashback special). At twelve thousand metres in the air he wondered what kind of new beginnings this fresh, new year could bring.

"First kisses." Squeaked the voice of his little man. "Lots and lots of first kisses."

ccclxv) 20mins Before 2012...

It's been a long, long year.