Exhaust fumes. Black stockings. A strong jawline and a mouth that has known many men. Sometimes we make daisy chains. We make love unaware of the rising seas and how one day all that we know will be underwater. It doesn’t matter, we’ll be dead by then, anyway. Those writers you hang around with- do you actually believe the shit they spew? Are you well aware of how far your nose is nestled where the sun never shines? Again, it doesn’t matter, it’s your life, not mine, but do yourself a favour and sever those ties before you end up writing as badly as they do. When I close my eyes, I see the corridors of a hospital, and when I squeeze them tight, the scent of her perfume tickles my nose over the stench of disinfectant. How many years is it now? I can’t quite remember. That version of us back when youth was on my side and I hadn’t been beaten by the adult world- sometimes it sings to me, and sometimes it doesn’t. In a room with sheets on the wall, a young couple perform sex acts on each other. They’re sordid, yet somehow rather boring. I’ve never quite made up my mind when it comes to sex. There are times when it seems so appealing, and yet it’s all so terribly predictable. Much like life in general. Still, it’s never stopped me from making the same old mistakes. And that’s all that we can do- keep fucking up until it’s our time. There’s no point in seeking perfection, and no point in trying to do things the right way, because there isn’t one. This state of flux- this neverending taxi ride to the centre of a city that never arrives- how it makes me smile.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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