Within the square confines of a faded polaroid, fingers smear labia at will. Litter trays, ashtrays—these sheets of paper betray my best intentions without me even realising. Some words contain hurt. Others, guilt. Two brown eyes and a smile orchestrated by tiny strings are the guiltiest of all. Strings like those connecting the many universes together without one single eye-witness account. Strings the same as those wrapped around the necks of cats tied up in bags flung into a river on some council estate where you wouldn’t want to step foot in even if the life of your lover depended on it. That squishy labia. Those silky fingers. Those eyeliner eyes and a throat adorned with the prettiest of black chokers. Does it choke you? Are you handcuffed to those who haven’t been a part of your life for the best part of a decade? Do you wish to escape but choke the second you put one foot through the door? It’s Mexico. Possibly Brazil. There are mountains. The mountains are caused by the sprouting pubic hairs that grow between her legs. Her legs are my legs. Her breasts, the shape of these sweaty hands that work best when squeezing the air from such a tender, pale neck. The cuts on my hands were made by claws. The claws belonged to mice. Blind. Anaemic. Jewish on their mother’s side. As a thirteen-year-old, I had a middle parting. I learnt not to speak. I also learnt that not only did masturbation bring with it many pleasures, but that to prod and poke the prostate at the same time would help part the seas of my closed mind. As a consequence, my mind now resembles that of a pigpen. It’s a bird’s nest in some shed in a bag lady’s back garden. The world is junk, as is the past. The future is future junk; perfection waiting to be penetrated by the key of present tense. If I tense, I can see you quite clearly. If I close one eye, I picture you in the nude; cast in molten rock beneath shards of lightening atop the ancient world.