Watch Eraserhead and touch yourself. Eat junk food and sniff the palm of your hand while on the phone to someone you often envision in the nude. You don’t tell them because that would take away the magic, as whenever you speak, your body and mind come together and produce a reaction that exists outside a level of your understanding. Whenever you’re in bed and trying to sleep, open the window and walk the streets of your youth. Whenever you lie there facing a pair of cold shoulders, know that the time has come to walk away. In the early hours of the morning, you find yourself at the train station. Sometimes in body, and at others, just in mind. Walking around searching for previous versions of yourself, you smoke a few cigarettes listening out for the echoes of past conversation. In stairwells and lobbies, you stand there trying to catch snippets of dialogue that once flowed between loving months, but try as you might they evade your best attempts at reclaiming who and what you used to be. In the entrance to a supermarket, you catch the scent of a lover who meant much more than any other, and as you stand there lost in thought, you can’t help but unravel as time and space melt like the wax of a candle. Under the covers, you twist and turn as the wind calls your name, and wiping beads of sweat from your brow, you try to imagine a way out, but all that comes to you is the image of your lover losing their virginity and just how pitiful it was when in their adolescent heads it meant more than life itself. As the hour’s tick away you find yourself with fever. You hear the distant rumble of vehicles passing down roads you walked as a child of which you can’t remember the names of. How many years ago that was, and yet somewhere, somehow, that version of you is still around. It’s lost and it’s cold and it’s beaten, and yet still it awaits the breaking of dawn with a smile on its lonesome face.