My body is a mess of semi-erotic fantasies, and editing words shame me for being so naive. All those memories put between the pages of a book; it’s an honor to remember the past, and yet it only emphasizes how weak I am. In my head, I’m forever. On paper, I lack magic in every area. Drinking to numb the disappointment, I light a cigarette and stare at the wall opposite my desk. I stay like this for the best part of an hour. There’s nothing else to be done other than to contemplate my failures with silent despair until the wine kicks in and my head begins to sway. So many pieces written showing nothing other than a lack of ability. So many thoughts best left to wither and die like so many before them. Leaning back in my chair, I think of the girl who was flirting with me earlier. She has a small mouth and eyes that remind of what it was like to be in love with the future. I’ve sized her up many times, and each time I’m close to her, I know one day I’ll cave in. Not because I want to, but because I need to. It’s not fair on her, but truth be told I don’t care. Contempt and bitterness are two flavours I savour above all else. They are beyond my control. There’s neither pleasure or pain- only the truth, and the need to bleed this truth into every word. If it doesn’t happen, I crumble like a dead flower. There are so many roads I’ve never set foot upon, and so many hips that have eluded my touch. To think of every neck that was ready for the taking, only boredom got the better of me. Oh, to be like the rest would be a blessing, yet what’s the point in lying. These things remain the same; it’s just how they were meant to be. It’s the nature of the universe and the nature of man. Pouring myself another glass, there’s always something more. Something that continues to elude these desperate hands no matter how hard I try.