In the back seat of the car, there are empty cans of beer and fast food wrappers and magazines concerning the human form. Females. Women. Stuff like that. There’s music. Albums such as Animals and Meddle and sometimes Wish You Were Here. Wrapped in a plastic bag, there are sketchbooks with copious amounts of notes regarding my worsening state of mental health. It’s been in decline for years. Most of the time I pretended everything was okay, but alas there came a point when things got the better of me. There is no sadness at my predicament, though, for only when I lost my mind did life become interesting. Only when my grip on things slipped did I finally get to taste the flavours that had eluded me for so long. In the glove box is a vibrator. There’s also a matchbox containing the remains of a crushed spider, neither of which belong to me. On the horizon are row after row of lights that shimmer and blink while I sit doing nothing other than observing my place in the grand scheme of things. Parking lots with no words. Buildings as quiet as the grave. Roaming packs of traveller kids that kick and hurl abuse at anything that moves including their stupid shadows. It’s pointless. All of it is. The past, present and future mean less to me than the dead cigarettes I keep flicking out the window, and yet still I laugh because it is what it is, and what is it exactly? It’s a connection. It’s the coming together of souls like a fleeting smile shared between strangers down a corridor. It’s meaning where others see absence. If you’re reading this, do yourself a favour and leave them while you can. Cut those ties and take a leap of faith. Do something that matters, or you’ll become just as ineptly submerged as the rest of them.