Author S. K. Nicholas

I’m bed-ridden with the flu, although secretly I think it’s the Scarlette Plague, and my time on this planet is down to a matter of mere hours. I’ve come out in a rash too, although the attractive Asian girl at the chemist told me it was just an allergic reaction. I asked her if she was sure it wasn’t the Scarlette Plague, to which she replied she was quite, quite sure. I’ve not been writing much, just curled up listening to the Ricky Gervais podcasts on YouTube. Can’t have any alcohol. No energy to masturbate. It’s been two years since I had my breakdown. No one was particularly interested in my demise, hence my current lack of interest in others. Lover’s say they love you, yet all they care about is the way you make them feel. Too many recycled bodies; too many lives spent in the cage of relationships. They’re dropping bombs on other countries, yet they should start by dropping them here instead. Eradicate them white teeth. Burn all imagery that has no meaning. I want to see celebrity raped of all merit, and I want those with money to realise that their final resting place will be on the slab along with the rest of us. Gunshots instead of church bells. Mutilation to replace insincerity. Running a bath, I blow my nose and stand open-mouthed while trapped by vague sensations. The universe appears so bleak outside my window. All that dark energy, just itching to see me dead. All those black holes, eating away at my memories. Someone come round and nurse me back to health. Breathe some life into this withered shell of mine before I’m ripped to pieces on the shoulder of Orion. Sit with me on a beach somewhere, and let waves the size of skyscrapers come and take us back home.