An ex-lover reclines on a bed we once made love upon. Lifting up her skirt, she slides down her panties and shows me her sex. It’s weapon; a knife in the belly, and a bullet between the eyes that devours my heart in the time it takes to slice the face of a thief. As the crowd rush his skinny frame and stab him up with rusty machetes, guilt gnaws away at me as her smile knows defeat. Stealing a car and driving with nowhere in particular in mind, a storm draws close in the rear view mirror as the cat girl who once danced around the moon dances within my head instead. In dreams, she crawls on all fours, and now she’s doing it again as music keeps me from nodding off at the wheel. Somewhere on the streets where I live, an ex-lover carries a child that isn’t mine. It saddens me to think of all that could’ve been, but a child won’t make me happy. Truth be told, I’m not sure what will. This crisis of confidence keeps reappearing more than I’d like. What will erase this doubt? What will make me feel at ease so much so that the urge to vanish will subside if only for an hour or two? Conflict, it jerks me off with one hand and strangles with the other. Spitting out a mouthful of blood, the image of a satellite crashing into Jupiter comes to me. Is it comprised entirely of gas, or is there a solid surface somewhere underneath? Such a question is unsettling, because although I seek the answer, its truth will do me no good at all, but such is the life of an artist. We seek knowledge beyond our grasp but do little with the results. We might create to ease the boredom, but there’s little else save for ego and self-disgust. Working to while away the hours, some blonde with a body resembling a waxwork melts near the window when exposed to daylight. Old people tell stories about their youth, but all I can do is look blankly at them in the realisation that one day this is what I’ll become. Is this my fate, or will there be a reprieve? Will I break away, or will death eat me for starters? Walking through a park listening to the new Biffy Clyro album, memories of the time I made love to an ex-lover wave to me from a row of trees. On damp grass in the early hours of the morning, we gave into passion as the rain soaked our clothes. The moment is gone, but the shape of her hips still makes my fingers tingle even after all this time.