Curled on the floor wearing just my dressing gown, I’m silent and without motion. Somewhere in the heavens above there exists enough planets to match the number of atoms in my body. Black stockings. Black lipstick. Near infinite fields of view with you reclining on a deck chair while nude and whispering my middle name. Ghostbusters 2 is on. That river of slime that flows beneath New York- it flows through my veins keeping me from escaping my dark half. It denies me from being the lover I need to be. But what would I write about if things were okay? If my days were an endless sunrise, what would I have to say that had never been said before? Opening and then closing my mouth, the dust of angel wings collects in my lungs and makes me gag. The London Underground is the intestines of this country, and I am the worm in its gut. When we make love, or as you put it, when you fuck me, I always make a habit of misplacing my rubbers, because if sex is without fear, it never seems to touch me. If there’s no danger, I tend to close my eyes and feel myself falling into a lukewarm sleep. Cigarettes. Blankets of fog. Bobby Brown singing ‘On Our Own’ as I pull back my foreskin and contemplate the reason of my being.