It rained not long after I left the store. Droplets of rain hit my pockmarked face, pinching me like the nippy fingers of a lover. A mild sting, followed by relief, then a need to embrace the sensation of pain once again. The rain flattened my hair, so I fetched a hat from my satchel and hid my sorry quiff from view. Not that anyone noticed. Those going about their business faced the puddled ground like convicts walking in circles within the yard of a prison. Most were doing their Christmas shopping in a state of despair. Not enough money. Too many memories. Too much of not enough as the circles of their lives decreased like a ball of vanishing string bouncing down a spiral staircase. At times like these, other than wishing to suckle a lover or pinch their nipples so as to take their breath away, I fantasise about what things will look like in a million years. In a million years, it will be as if we were never even here. Perhaps there will be fragments of us that still linger, but not many. If there are to be any remains of these days, they’ll most likely be in space, floating around like driftwood and leaves in a cosmic ocean bigger than all the egos on Earth that have ever existed. We’re not leaves though, but ants. Armies of infighting ants. Red ones. That bite. Baring my teeth at the sky, the throbbing in my temples is matched only by the one in my cock. I am alive and dead at the same time, like Laura Palmer from Twin Peaks. I’m filled with secrets. Some worth knowing. Some stolen. Others buried so deep not even I can find them.