Peeking through an open door, we sit in the park making plans reading magazines that tell us how things will be but things never quite plan out that way, because that’s life, right? We could be angry about how it turned out, but shit happens to everyone, and whether we like it or not, it’s just how it is. I was once a man, but now I’m a writer, which is something both infinitely worse and more impressive at the same time. There were moments when I was a lover, but now, now I’m not quite sure what’s going on with me at all. There are so many words and emotions and truths, and yet I’m not real, I’m an abstraction. A distortion of someone I may or may not once have been. Is it still possible that I’m the one sat with you in that park? Or has he evaporated into nothingness? Which version happens to be writing these words, and how do I figure out to make it all better? Sometimes, sometimes the question motivates me, and then there are days when I can’t be bothered at all, and I just lie in bed until noon struggling to overcome some useless hangover not bothered if the world burns or keeps on turning. Sometimes I think about us, and just us. Us in bed. Us walking through an autumnal field discussing how one day we’ll be buried together side by side and then us eating our fish and chips grinning because our bellies are full and the moon shines on us and us alone. It’s all lunacy, and yet such lunacy prevents one from giving up and becoming like those that claim to have it all figured out. Such fucks should be pissed upon the same way you piss upon those cakes in a urinal while drunk and barely able to stand yet alive because although you’re fucked at least you’re not like them. And don’t ever become like them. Don’t ever surrender. No matter how much life drags you down, don’t ever stop wanting to do things your way, because your way is the only way. This door, it slowly closes on me, and yet it remains open. They’re always open. And you’re always on the other side.