When stress begins to take control.

Begin to think of time as whole.


Streams keep flowing as you think,

And death takes men with every blink.

One foot in fire; One in ice.

Arms outstretched in depth and height.


A child dies within the womb,

A flower dances in it’s bloom.

Love’s first kiss on nervous lips.

Flying birds and sinking ships.


Midnight, midday, they are the now,

Awake, Asleep, a death, a vow.


What are we but selfish beings?

Emotions flow immediately.

Perspective points of different seeing,

Stuck not in time, in sensory.


If I were time I’d laugh and cry.

In every second I pass by.

With focus on each lone event,

A flapping wing, a final breath.


Stress all you want and waste the day.

The trees don’t stress, they only sway.

A butterfly lands on a child’s nose,

And time holds more than what you know.


Written by Randall Evans.

Rooms – Train Freewrite 

We live our lives in separate rooms.

When the first racing games were developed, it became evident that the car didn’t actually move, it was the track that was moving. Sometimes this is how I feel.

As I write this I’m sharing a room with a Vietnamese family. It’s probably the only room we’ll share in our life. Just now the little girl shoved her tiny hand across her father’s face to shut him up. Slapstick knows no language.

The room is powering down the tracks towards the lights of the big city. I’ll get off at Newtown and jump on a bus back home to Marrickville. I wonder if I’m writing like this because I’ve been reading ‘A moveable feast’. In any case, I don’t own a shotgun.

We form attachments to the people who occupy the same spaces as ourselves. I feel like a busy train is similar to a new seating arrangement in school. We are separate from our friends and the silence is evident. In a few weeks, however, we’ve made new friends and the seating arrangement must change.

Thousands of people have written on trains to try and pass the time and somehow contribute to the oversaturated use of the train as a metaphor for fate or choice, or even a concept as loose as ‘life’. The truth is that anything short of the Orient Express is a waste of time.

The family just jumped off at Cabramatta.

I wonder what the inside of their house looks like? I’d imagine that it’ll still be raining when the father opens the door for his family, his little girl running past him to grab the last thing she was playing. The warmth inside is the closest thing the room can do to say ‘I missed you’. The red curtains, soft carpet, and the dull hum of a fish tank filter are the signifiers of home. Yet, they are nothing special.

It’s association. The rooms we occupy only have significance when memories are forgotten about them. When we can’t quite remember all the stories about high-school, that’s where the nostalgia comes from.

It’s 9:55pm and a woman is getting restless. In a true bogan fashion, the man yelled , “Stop your fu#king bitching”. I know the space they occupy and it’s why they are here. It’s why they are on the move. The forgotten memories that have seeped into the walls push them out. Sadness… hurt… disappointed. It’s why they’d rather be outside than in.

It’s why we crave holidays.

My room is like a cave. It’s dark, damp and ancient. I had a strange feeling when I was eating breakfast of the time I have left. Picturing myself as an old man, but at the same single table… eating alone. It’s a terrifying image.

The happy couple are still fighting. Next stop is Grandville. I remember changing trains there countless times and purchasing chicken rolls. Three people got off. One lady is watching makeup tutorials on her phone. She has purple hair.

Your body is the train, your consciousness is the track. You are right here with me. Your consciousness determines where you go, which rooms you occupy. Your body merely follows your mind.

Not the Orient Express, but hey, I think this bogan behind me might murder his wife.

Written on the train by Randall Evans

This is The Vile Mint

The Cave

I ventured deep inside a cave. Down into the warmth of the earth. Into a place where the sounds of the surface are left behind.

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It’s beautiful.

The rocks were magnificent. Each different formation had a name, ‘Actors on a stage’ or ‘The father of federation’, who faced the only exit.

But these were young names given to impossibly old monuments that have no thoughts or feelings. They neither love nor hate.

Yet attractive and full of mystery, the cave didn’t seem an important place for humans to venture. 

That is, until my light went out.

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It was total darkness. No phone screens, no torches and no lighters.


I could not see my hand in front of my face.

Heavy is the air that held me.

In that pure darkness, with my breath held silently in the still air, I discovered something.

I exist.

reflection -- stalic tight - jenolan caves -- caves -- river -- underground -- lake -- australia -- travel -- sydney

I could still feel my hands. I could feel the texture of the rocks surrounding me.

To base existence on the perceived reality of touch, or any other sense, is far from profound. It was more than that. I based my existence on the following:

I felt the gentle warmth of skin brush past me for a split second.

In the billions of years the cave took to form, that minuscule fraction of time was the most powerful. A fraction of time smaller than a particle of mist that lands in the ocean.

I exist and so do you.
reflection -- jenolan caves -- caves -- river -- underground -- lake -- australia -- travel -- sydney -- stairs

The external is real.

I climb to the surface with the other explorers. The sounds of nature return to my ears.

My eyes have become windows. I’m now a guest in this world.

In the light under the warmth of the sun, I feel that moment of invisible beauty.


reflection -- jenolan caves -- caves -- river -- underground -- lake -- australia -- travel -- sydney

– By Randall Evans.

Reflection Distorts Desired Delusions

I lay awake as the silence takes hold.
It gets louder and louder.
I beg for a distraction.
Reflection distorts desired delusions.


What time is is? I’ll check my phone. I’ll check my notifications. I’ll check my newsfeed. I’ll check my email.

I’ll check out.

My mind is a rapid when it should be a lake.

If I let the waters settle… They might begin to boil… They have to keep flowing…

Reflection distorts desired delusions.

How many years has it been since I left school?

Why haven’t I achieved what I thought I would.

I remember saying that I would have a family by 23… At 25 I can pass that one off as naïvety.

What time is it?

Things will get better… I know they will… I just know it…

My mind is an ocean when it should be rain.

Every drop that hits the ground is acceptance of reality.

Every drop that falls fills the bucket labeled ‘Failure’.

I’ll staple my eyes shut if I have to.

Reflection distorts desired delusions.

It’s about travel… that’s it… And… Experience! Sadness is an experience none of these people can fathom! They don’t know pain! They don’t know suffering! They are just sheep! Sheep living in their digital playgrounds! Never thinking! Never feeling!

What time is it ?

What time?

What’s the time?

The silence is loud. My mind is sleepwalking when it should be in asleep.

It’s all ok. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life. I’m going to live for me and be free.

Reflection distorts desired delusions.


This is The Vile Mint.


Once upon a time, the stories weren’t so far away… And their heart were even closer.

If you ever look up from your newspaper or phone on the train, you will notice that everyone’s head moves in the same pattern. They all drift along with motion of the train.

Inertia: a property of matter by which  an object continues in its existing state of rest or uniform motion in a straight line, unless that state is changed by an external force.

The train comes to its regular stop at the station. A few people get off, a few people get on. After a 23 second delay, people start to look at their watches.

7 seconds more…

“Stand clear, doors closing.”

A sigh of relief is shared by the passengers…

But, the train doesn’t move.

What could only be described as ‘A junky’, starts to swear under his breath. A young student looks over at him from the corner of her eyes.

“Attention passengers,” The speakers don’t have to be so loud, “We are currently waiting for a signal to change, we should be off shortly.”

It’s odd, people that read books on the train always seem to stop reading when there is a delay. They stop and stare out the window.

The landscape never changes. The train never moves.

A girl gets out her phone.

Disease: A disorder of structure or function in a human, animal, or plant, especially one that produces specific symptoms or that affects a specific location and is not simply a direct result of physical injury:

“The train is delayed…. I don’t know… I’ll try and get off…”

The train doors open.

“Attention passengers, we may be here for a long time, so we have opened the doors if you would like to get out. We apologize for this inconvenience. We are just waiting for the police to give the all-clear as a bodily object has obstructed the train ahead of us.”

A small frown forms on the few passengers who have nowhere to go.

“A bodily object…”

The disease spreads. More people get out there phones and stand on the train platform. Peak hour is no time for the trains to stop running. People want to get home to their families or have a drink with their friends.

A staff member of the rail network talks to some people outside. They have no new information.

“They have no idea how long it will take, can you just come and get me?”

Ignorance used to be bliss.

“Yeah, I’m going to be late. Well… Look… I understand that….”

But humankind has evolved.

“Really? No one can come and get me?  I’ve had a really long day!”

Apathy is bliss.

The train doesn’t move, and neither do the people.

At the next station rests a body upon the track. No more pain. No more suffering. No more life.

Once upon a time, we weren’t so far away… And our hearts were even closer.

– By Randall Evans.

Shadows of Memory


The flickering light in your eyes brings sadness,

Thoughts painting shadows on canvas.

A cool breeze in the night from the window,

A ship floating nowhere… stuck in limbo…

Hold the wax above the flame.

The falling drops cause the flame self shame.

To see or not to see; the fading light of memory.

To flee or not to flee; the process of self mutiny.


Each breath irreversible every day you’re alive.

The end is an ocean, we all have to dive.

Avoiding the void? You’re one domino…

Falling into the past. Falling in tomorrow.


Tomorrows yesterday’s here, just for one day.

Embrace it right now, or keep running away.


– By Randall Evans.

The Great Observer

I am 11:11

A moment in time.

How to explain…

I am like a flick book. A flick book has about 100 pages and each page has a slightly different picture. When you flick the pages quickly, the man in the picture begins to move. Well, the illusion is that the man is moving.

I am that book. I am that book with all the pages ripped out and placed on the floor so that you can see everyone of them.

No illusions. No progression.

I am all the moments in time that don’t interact. Integration itself doesn’t exist in a single solitude moment.

You are the same book. However, the difference is that you only get to be flicked once. You only have one illusion to play out. There is no turning back.

I can’t change the past or the future, so I don’t know what good this advise will be. Maybe the future is so because of my intervention, who can tell?

I can tell you this: One of these moments… one of these pictures… is yours.

There is an exact picture of the very microsecond you die.

I’m looking at it right now.

You die.

I’m certain of it.

My advise is simple. Don’t die before you start living.

I am 00:00

– By Randall Evans.