Got me a brown paper bag full of goodies that be bad for the heart but good for my art. Beer, sweets, smokes and stuff. And a copy of a magazine my nan used to buy. It’s full of real-life stories. Stories about real people, people unlike myself. I’m far too vague for that shit. Thumbing through its pages, I make a cup of tea and chew a few painkillers to tackle my bebop head. Sounds hurt. As do all vibrations. If only I were a cloud, or a ball of dust, one of those big ones that span light years just hanging around in space waiting to dissipate with a haunting, majestic sense of beauty. Spazzing out at the thought of how vast space is, I finish reading the magazine then put on Ghostbusters, the first one, and sprawl out on the couch. Too cold though, so I fetch my dressing gown and turn on the heating. When the movie ends and my belly’s full of beer, I watch old episodes of Keeping Up Appearances, and after the third or fourth one, fall asleep. In the dreams that follow, Sigourney Weaver straddles me and makes my cock bleed followed by memories of X and I walking through town hand in hand looking for Christmas ornaments and finger foods to nibble on in bed. She be wearing black eyeliner looking like a panda. She be smiling and jumping from foot to foot like a monkey at the sight of all the yummy looking treats we come across in some outdoor market with snow falling on us all romantic like. Drifting around in the netherworld, I see gateways, doorways. Windows that take me to New York and the mean streets of Luton where only the brave ever dare step foot. When I awake, I check my cock and am pleased to find no blood. Opening another beer, I fill the sink with cold water and stick my head in. Keeping it submerged until I almost run out of breath, I snap my head back and gasp for air, elated to be alive.