It’s been said I grind my teeth while sleeping, for two former partners told me so. I talk as well, but no evidence remains of the words that have ever left my nocturnal lips. Purchasing a mouth guard to stop myself-a-grinding when the Sandman comes-a-calling, I drop it in a bowl of boiling water and count to fifteen. When it’s time, I place the guard over the teeth on my upper jaw and bite while sucking in a mouthful of air. It’s a good fit. I remember biting an ex-lover’s nipple in the throes of sex once causing her to hit me in the face. Harsh, but probably deserved, as has been the case of most things that have happened to me. Taking the guard from my mouth and inspecting it in the palm of my hand, it’s covered in saliva, and the indentations of my teeth are clearly visible. I’m not sure what the chances of me using it are; as people say you can choke to death on them. Not the classiest of ways to go by any stretch. Popping it back in my mouth, I roll a cigarette and think about a book I’ve been reading. It states that there are different kinds of love and the one that resembles my own accurately describes how I fall in love with people to drive my creative vision, while all the time maintaining a distance so as not to be drawn into a steady and fulfilling relationship. It says I crave a muse to inspire me to create, and that I deliberately sabotage relationships to add fuel to the fire while preventing myself from becoming settled. It doesn’t surprise me, but seeing it there in black and white is pretty damning. It dawned on me something might be up when I was at work the other day. There’s a girl who shall remain nameless. She’s younger than me, but then again, they always are. Anyway, I found myself fantasising about her, so much so that she entertained my thoughts all through the night. Through the days that followed, she was constantly on my mind, but not in any real sense. I was creating fantasies with her; stories where the two of us were exploring each other’s bodies in surreal, invented landscapes, but only because I wanted to put them all down onto paper. As a real person, she means nothing to me, and yet in my head, I’m in love with the smallest most delicate features of her face. I need to be around her so as to fuel the fantasies, but I’m not even moved to start a conversation. And the more I think about it, the more it’s been happening ever since the end of my last relationship. Writing has become more intense with every word over the past twelve months, but the real world doesn’t cut it. Real people don’t cut it.