The morning after the night before, I wake and piss in the bathroom sink while washing my mouth out to take away the taste of bottled beer and cigarettes. After a breakfast of eggs and bacon and a mug of tea, my stomach begins to heave so I take a shit and feel at one with the gods. Squatting there looking out the window, there is nothing that can beat me, and even though I don’t say it out loud, I let it be known that I am in control of all things. Jumping in the shower to wash away the grease and scent of day old sex, I knock one out thinking about Scarlette Johansson, and in particular, what I imagine it would be like to go down on her in a field of corn one sweet day in the month of July. When I’m done being crude, I get dressed and head into town. All about me, there is a sea of people with no faces. The likes of them don’t concern me, though, for here and there you get the odd pair of eyes looking out of place and secretly scared of the thoughts they harbour inside. These are the ones I pay attention to. These are the lost souls that draw me in and populate my mind, not these hideous cunts that bust their guts in an attempt to tell everyone just how ordinary they are. And so I light up a smoke and move past the boarded up shops and the subways and flooded quarries where mermaids await my drunken return beneath a full moon that colours our bodies with just the right shade of sin. From the streets to the fields where I feel most at ease, I do my best to reach you via telepathy. Sensing that you’re aware of my need for you, I ask that you imagine what you’d do if a tsunami came and wiped away all the useless fuckers we have no need for, and that if you would bite your lip if I surfed a wave right to where you live. If you can, picture the sight of me climbing up the drainpipe and tapping on the window of your room, demanding in no uncertain terms that you join me in an escapade that will surely see us ruined and bleeding at the knees.