Beer collects on the hairs of my upper lip, and so I stick out my tongue and suck the beads down as a treat. Feeling giddy, I picture her in the nude and in particular, the shape of her breasts and the touch of her nipples upon the tips of my itchy fingers. Those nipples, they’re hard and big, and I like their colour and how it contrasts with the pigment of her areolas. Sometimes, when I’m feeling sly, I draw them in my sketchbook and take so many hours to get the texture right, and by the end, I work myself into such a state that sordid self-abuse is the only thing that stops me from losing my mind. Well, I say that, but my mind went years ago. Of course, she’s more than just a body, and it goes without saying that her soul’s as heavy as heaven, but I’m just a man and try as I might, the pleasures of the flesh are as natural to me as sorrow. There’s a song, and the words speak to me in a way nothing else can. They drift to me through the night air, and it seems no one can hear them because none of those around me have tears in the corners of their eyes like I do. Tilting my head to one side, I see trees and stars and fields of corn, and each stalk smells just like her. Through my drunken haze, her smile obliterates everything and leaves me paralysed, but in the best possible way. The song, it’s one by Elliott Smith. There’s a certain word he sings, and it’s how he sings it in particular that brings her to me. All that emotion. That desperation longing. That need to show my heart in the hope of finding one just like it that can go some way to heal whats left of mine, because mine is drowned and stained and clogged up with junk, and yet it’s still a good ‘un, I swear. Despite the slime and grime and puke and piss, there’s beauty in me, I just know there is.