Market stalls make way for the aisles of a store where as a child, I stole a packet of sweets from under the nose of my grandmother. It’s not the same store, but I remember how it once was. All yellow, and endless, like the trail left by a greedy bee covered in pollen. Pondering the difference between the world as it was then and how it is now, I dodged those around me lacking the ability to appreciate spatial awareness and lowered my face mask. I felt smothered, and as the beads of sweat trickled down my temples, I was reminded of the times I once suffered anxiety attacks. I knew I wasn’t on the verge of one, but still, the memories of those days quickened the beat of my heart, and for a moment, I wished to be somewhere else entirely. It felt as if I were in the presence of an unseen spider, one as big as my hand, with a hatred for those who appear to like doing nothing other than squashing its kind for kicks. The sight of endless paint cans did little to alleviate my condition. There’s poetry in my soul, yet I’m boxed in by routine. The routine of living—of waking, breathing. Shitting, wanking. Pretending that being human is something I’m content with. No, I want to be among the stars. Ethereal, like a dream. Fleeting like the fluttering of a heart on the brink of falling in love. Sucking on mouthfuls of warm air, I leant against a shelf of sandpaper. Reaching out, my fingers touched a sheet of the rough stuff leaving me feeling grounded yet pointless. My situation reminded me of the image of someone holding a newspaper above their head, trying to shelter from the rain. A dirty newspaper full of tits. A billion drops of rain as cold as indifference.