Budd’s unsure when Rigil journals this. Maybe two months after Rigil watches his nomadic best friend from college commit a tragic oops above SouthStation’s tracks? This scene drives him to string these insignificant moments leading up to the happenings beside tracks two and three. Or he cares to let you know he’s an asshole. His attitude’s how he chooses to protect his solace—a mystical happy place he abstracts in flight to TheDistrict’s Port Avanti airport. That’s the territory of states along our Atlantic Coastline where nine states conform. West coast sounds next.
As of today, the places he writes about aren’t found on the internet. And America seems to be experimenting with new ways of well-being for thriving citizens. So, he’s writing decades from tomorrow.
Anyway, back to Rigil. This disruptive refugee. Aloof to his trauma.
Because a writer is frustrated in disgrace, after failing at publishing his first book, he sits in his writer’s nest to journal a chain of meditative thoughts.
Creative author and writer Budd, expresses his artistic beast, laying out inner words of wisdom to transpire self-growth, self-awareness, and self-fulfillment. What’s haiku got to do with this? Between chapters is traditional Japanese poetry. To inspire his mind to produce a book of bullshit, Budd had to trust what lies between a brain elating such poetry and the blank space these words are written onto.
Each chapter is prompted by embracing what reality the eyes understand. As Budd creatively thinks and writes, his words get random. And so can yours after chapter nine’s haiku.