I should write again. It’s been six months now. Sometimes, though, it’s just easier to sleep and do nothing. I love falling asleep. Those thoughts I drift away with. Memories, fantasies. My body aches, and I’m always tired. I feel like I’m empty, but when the sun comes out, I’ll open my window and feel better again. I work with people who dream of objects, who talk of dismal ambition. They go on about stuff, but I don’t listen. They talk about drinking, about holidays, about London. Oh, London! London! The world is London! Fuck London, I hope it burns. Destroy its history, and destroy the people that drown in its lies. They’re not even people, they’re insects wrapped in flesh feeding on dollars and cents, and flesh is only flesh. Today is my day off. I woke up hungover just after midday. I made myself a cup of tea then lit a cigarette. Made food, ate food. I dreamt of sex, with girls past and present. Gripping their ankles, I did things to them while they just watched. Played with them like I played beneath a childhood sun. I don’t want to go out today. I’d love to fall back asleep, but I’m too tired. I wish I had an energy drink, but I’m all out. Maybe I’ll masturbate while visualizing my hand moving up her leg. She’ll moan in pleasure as it moves inside her panties. Then I’ll slide inside of her, and my thoughts will explode as my waste stains itself upon me. I have books to read, but I’ll probably just wander around the house. Last night me and my girlfriend went out for a meal with my mum and her partner. It was pleasant. I had a few beers and stroked my girl’s leg beneath the table. I think right now I’d like to be in a garden centre. Just to smell the flowers and soil, and to have a bite to eat in its coffee shop. Empty shopping malls in the morning. Stomach pains. The beauty of nothing. Watching people from the front window as they pass beneath me. Acid reflux. Totem poles. I went to the cinema and felt it closing in. Like that time in the chip shop. I felt it in the library too, and in the toilets of a store. Nausea. Sickness. It grips then caresses. It’s a shadow. A black star bathing me in its light. I saw a postcard of a lynched man burnt to death. I want to browse through a bookstore. Girls, they swim with the fishes, they shimmer with stars and diamonds. They produce fluids.
Categories: Future Past