When I put the ring on her finger, she whispers something about electricity. As she bites through the string I’ve tied around her wrists, she presses her body against mine, but I’m drunk on two bottles of wine and can barely stand. There are bees and butterflies in the garden, and the sight of her in knee-high socks always gets me going. It’s raining, but the downpour can’t put out the fire in our hearts. It does flatten my hair, however, and this upsets me enough to write furious poetry most of which is destroyed the morning after. Chain-smoking as my soul slips out of view, I remember when I first put pen to paper. The early days of the novel. 2009. 2010 proper. I was the greatest writer in the world. No one could touch me. Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me. I watched it with her one Saturday night and attempted to make love while half asleep. It was the scene where Killer Bob comes in through the window. I remember repeatedly dreaming I had torn the flesh of my penis, and as blood poured between my legs, I awoke with a start and clung to her breasts for comfort. Years came and went. Panic attacks while attempting to learn French. Depression on my journey to the job centre not wishing to find a job. My only dream has been to become who I wish to be, but such a thing has proven disastrous. These people- they know nothing of what it is to see beyond the looking glass. Still, I fucked some beautiful women along the way, and enjoyed more than enough solitude, so I can’t complain. Malborough Red. Pouting mouths and ankles gripped tightly. Shots of whiskey and cigars smoked while walking the rim of the quarry unable to tell the difference between reality and the rest. When you’re drunk, there’s no tomorrow. There’s only pornography of the soul and the wish to debase. Stripped naked. Hands around slender waists. Stripped bare, and alive to the flesh. You have not succeeded; you’re only doing what can be done within the boundaries of the system. One foot after the other is not achievement; it’s merely function. This is what they allowed you to become. It’s part of your design that can never be erased. Searching the undergrowth for the missing pieces, there are fractions of her reflections in raindrops, but the closer I look, I’m not sure who they belong to anymore.