Start to a novel i may finnish

My voice is withdrawn as I seek solice in incoherant pictures, music is my other escape however my incouragable hating on my self often puts this on the back burner. I am sitting where I have built a semblence of reality smoking and drinking. The natives (Koreans) go about their business as usual however I am suspicious of their intentions. There is a motobike in front of me which I am also suspcious of. My head feels light as I sip on a Hite. Flys are also surrounding me. Fucking, rubbing their hands or whatever they have. They are constantly rubbing their front legs together. They fly fast in complicated patterens searching for dead mammals, I suppose. Of course I am not a fly and I am mildly disapointed that my beer has run out. I have to divert my attention to A) getting another beer and continue writing or B) trying to deal with the shit I have been wading in recently. I decide on option A) but modify it so I just get the beer and don't continue to write.