There were dreams of fields and reservoirs with wet soil beneath my fingers and then I awoke to the news about the tower block in London setting alight. On the tele, they showed it burning like a firework. The flames were orange and angry, and as the news reporters told stories about those who had jumped from their windows to seek a way out, it took me back to the attack on the Twin Towers. I hadn’t even heard of them up until that point, but the sight of those bodies falling through the sky from so high up hasn’t left me even after all this time. Getting up and taking a piss, I run a bath then go downstairs to make a cup of tea. After the peppermint cuppa, there’s a cigarette and a Yakult to promote good bacteria followed by an orange tablet that dissolves in water that turns my pee a funny colour. The weather is nice but the sun burns my skin. It causes cancer, and right now I’ve diagnosed myself with several types again. Testicular, jaw, colon and stomach, to name a few. I’ve felt my depression worsening ever so slightly these past few weeks. I used to take medication for it. Never worked though. Just left me feeling empty. Writing makes me feel better, and despite the drawbacks it brings, it gives me a sense of purpose and a reason to keep going. And yet the ebb and flow of my heart and mind inflict as much as they redeem. Eating my breakfast while sitting cross-legged, Londoners are interviewed and give their opinions. Black. White. Asian. Young. Old. It makes me smile when people of all cultures come together, and yet why does it always need a tragedy? The problem with tragedies is that it’s always too late, and no amount of well-doing is enough to turn back time. Taking my bath, I listen to The Smiths. Meat is Murder, if you must know. For a while, I contemplate masturbation, and although my mind wanders to the body of an ex-lover and in particular how I used to rub my crown over her erect nipples, the moment escapes me.