I’m afraid of the 80’s, and even though the decade doesn’t exist anymore, somehow it does. I’m a relic of a grotesque time- a product of a damned generation spat out from its mother’s womb into a world undeserving of anything other than oblivion. As a grown man, I know that flowers and women are beautiful, and they make me feel warm inside, but what I am just won’t shift. These footsteps of mine- they should be glorious. They should be an elegant testament to the journey I’ve been on since the year of Big Brother, but instead, they reek of illness. They’re sour- like one of those gobstoppers with enough sugar in them to make your balls shrink to the size of marbles and your eyes snap shut like a trapdoor. To think of all those sweets I’ve consumed- all those energy drinks and bottles of wine, too- oh, the shame. In a greasy spoon situated by the side of the motorway, the day is dull and gray, and I sit in silence eating a traditional English breakfast while drinking a cup of tea. When done, I head over to a newsagents and flick through endless women’s magazines. Temptation getting the better of me, I look at the top shelf and at some brunette teen who seems ready and willing to do anything to please. She won’t be pleasing me, however, because all I want is to go play on the fruties, and then sit outside in the sun smoking my cigarette without a single thought running through my stupid brain. No art. No writing. Just a trip to Bristol Zoo. No pretension- just someone wanting to catch a glimpse of animals doing their animal things. Nature is the only escape, and although they’re caged and chained to our whims, within their hearts is an energy that speaks to me more than books and music combined.