Those empty vessels that slide away your tights, and those itchy, nicotine-stained fingers that pinch and squeeze your fleshy bits until you come three times like a lady. In a bathroom that’s never been cleaned, there are lines of coke that zigzag across a shattered mirror the same way God’s taken the time to etch his name across the pale sky, and as you smear those white lines the same as you smear your mascara after a night of heavy drinking, it seems to me that your beauty stems more from your sordid lies than it does your honest smile. Such a wicked waste. Such a naughty taste. Someplace in murky, bummy London, I’m searching scorched shadows for enough coins to buy myself greasy food to fill an undernourished belly. I need saving—I need ointment. There’s a room with smoke-stained curtains and a body littered with bite marks from tit to toe. The body doesn’t move, just lightly snores while I look out the window waiting for the rain with one eye on the sky and the other on the neon sign that blinks at me from across the street. Hypnotised by its addictive nature, I lower my underwear and point my dick at the sun and start rubbing. When I shoot less than a minute later, I call out God, but this time he doesn’t say a word, so my goo drips to the carpet and disappears as if it were never there to begin with. There are pills on searching tongues and flicked ash in crushed cans, and bellyache after bellyache from morning till noon. Upon the stairs, there’s scattered underwear and the soundtrack from a wet dream that never leaves. These faces I see; they change quicker than the weather, but if you want, your dreams can keep their magic the same as a photo keeps its truth. It does so by staying silent, so stay as silent as you can. Pinch your lips shut, and then pinch your bits until you cry out again and again and again.