The morning begins with a cup of tea to take away the taste in my mouth. Beer and cigarettes mostly, but there’s other stuff as well. Traces of lipstick. Hints of despair and cold sunshine from a balcony that belonged to my student days. With dreams of distant planets still floating on the surface of my eyes, the universe rumbles in my belly. This body of mine- it’s ageing even though I don’t want it to, and with each and every hangover I feel it in my bones more and more. So I light a smoke and sit there observing my face in the mirror. There are lines around my eyes and stains on my teeth that never used to be there. The hairs on my head- where once there was a sea of red there are now strands of grey. It’s not fair, and yet what is there to do but write and continue to live as if tomorrow will never come. My thirst for the nipple will always remain, and as I shower while knocking one out thinking about the breasts of an ex-lover, life seems both magical and desperate in the same breath. A few gasps later, and out comes the white stuff and there go my knees, and as I grab hold of the shower curtains to stop myself from falling, I think about the crows in that field of corn Van Gogh painted. To think that such a scene once existed- to think that he was stood there eating his paints while the atoms in his body trembled with terror so many years ago. Y’know he used to suffocate moths in jam jars and then paint their dead little moth bodies? A cruel man indeed, but they only live for a day, don’t they? Or am I getting them confused with butterflies? Whatever. After eating, I remember more of my dream. There was a ship. It was docked in a harbour, and the ocean was an ocean of black balloons and upon the ship I was suckling the breast of Rosita from The Walking Dead. How heavenly it was. She was lactating, and as I swallowed her milk, the stars in the sea above spelt out our initials and everything was sheer poetry.