Cigarettes and spent cans of Red Bull collecting rainwater the morning after the night before. Tit-wanks and ashtrays brimming with dead insects on a balcony overlooking a landscape that resembles the insides of her thighs. As we read Wilde in empty bathtubs dressed in pyjamas and stinking of sin, the old town is blanketed in snow. As the city next door drowns in self-loathing, those we used to know bleed for machines without understanding the reasons why. They used to be just like us, but somewhere along the line they fell in love with the middle class. Now they reek of sobriety, and while we spend our days drunk on the fumes of desire, they visit IKEA and drink coffee discussing the importance of being social. When the one you crave comes calling, insert the flux capacitor deep inside her special place and bite your tongue as all your yesterday’s melt like wax across her breasts. Blink away the sweat, scratch your neck and surf the waves in her hair as she spins in sunlight reflected from the mirrors that cover the walls of her room. Her room is a womb, it’s safe and warm, and whenever she invites me in, it’s like being strangled to death by all the angels in heaven. Perverse, hedonistic. These dreams of ours often are. We write to goad those who lack imagination and put words onto pages to ignite the stale days we wish to leave behind. We know why they’re afraid. They pretend they’re not, but the thoughts in our heads hold more meaning than their entire lives put together because despite their numbers only a few of them have ever breathed and even fewer have seen what need to be seen. And yet all it takes is one song, one kiss. Avoid all lovers, and reject the ties that bind. Be a loner. Be alone. Kill all spiders but don’t. Scratch your arms with memories and suffer the weight of the world because we are not blameless and yet we will shine when the lights dim because when we spin in those endless, delirious circles of truth, our laughter will lift us high above those who never had the courage to do what shouldn’t be done.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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