Some Islamic State insect strolls along a beach shooting so easily at holidaymakers. From the waters of a heavenly womb, to death on foreign sands. Basking in the sun one minute, breathing their last the next. A dozen or so were my fellow countrymen. One was a blogger, an attractive girl seeking a career in fashion. Pumped full of bullets and blown to bits, now she’s a victim forever. An insect with an empty soul firing at will. An hour later they shot him in the head. I saw the photograph of him lying in the street, blood gushing from his wounds like a river. Over thirty dead, but thousands more disappear by the day. In the comfort of my room, I drink tea and smoke a cigarette. In the comfort of my English existence, the day is lazy and dedicated to nothing other than doing nothing. Across the globe they behead like it were going out of fashion. They burn and drown like it wasn’t even a real life they were taking. All in the name of god. The one they twist and turn to suit their pointless needs. Darkened faith in imaginary beings. Just animals is all they are. Just animals like you and me. The Americans still hung up on colour. The French running scared again. Bombs, rape, and celebrity shit eating smiles wherever you have the displeasure of looking. Disillusioned by everything, even breasts. The bottle of wine sits on the windowsill reflecting strange pattens on the floorboards. It offers me a choice, and I say yes every time. The streets are deserted. Birdsong and churchbells, but little in the way of human activity. It’s just the way I like it. Too much contact with others leaves me drained. All those conversations. That gibberish that never ends. Everyone wears a face. Few coming across as they really are, and even then it’s hard to make out what they’re saying over the din of everyone else. Adorned with modern trends. Slaves to appearances. The blah blah people infected with modern sex stalked by centuries old demons. Scrub your skin free of disease whilst the horrors of existence slowly creep closer. One day soon, they’ll be at your door, and what will you do then? What will any of us do when the life is sucked out of our lungs completely? So pour that glass of wine, and think of a place down memory lane where nothing hurts. Dig deep, and picture it until the taste is on the tip of your tongue. A frame of mind for when things get to much. A version of heaven for the infidels who can’t stop dreaming.