I’m sat in this park jotting down words into a tatty notepad. These words, they’ve got me into trouble so many times, and my obsession with wanting them to reach others has pushed me far from where I once belonged, and yet still they keep coming. They pump and stutter with all the elegance of a drunk fumbling with his dick in an attempt to impress a woman just as pissed and just as desperate for her kicks. Sometimes it feels like I’m doing something worthwhile, like I’m saying what needs to be said, and then it’s as if I don’t know what I’m doing at all. There are days when it’s like I’m tapping into this hidden magic, this universal language we keep locked inside, and the words I write are the key to some beautiful mystery just waiting to be found, and then there are those days I just spend in bed wondering what it is exactly I’m doing with my life after all. Scribbling a few lines I’ll no doubt cross out when I return home, I look up and watch the dog walkers and cyclists pass me by, each of them consumed by their own little worlds. None of them notice me, but it’s okay because I have my words and the sun on my skin makes me feel alive, and for the time being, at least, my mistakes and regrets don’t haunt me but instead fuel the fires in my beer-thirsty belly. Opening my satchel, or man-bag if you like, I take out a warm can of beer and suck down the sweet nectar. When things feel a little swimmy a few minutes later, I lie on my back and think about beautiful women, and the more my mind wanders, the more it turns to X. Looking up at the sun, I’m blinded by visions of her dancing in a field of corn, and as the same sun that shines upon me shines upon her, I indulge myself in fantasy, for fantasy is the only thing that seems to keep me sane these days.