At times, reality is like forgettable porno, all golden showers in showers with tiles all mouldy and women not women but vehicles for the desires of men who are not men but grisly balls of metallic cotton wool. To touch the stuff is murder. Men make murder, as well as boredom. If only I were a tree. If only I were a woman searching herself upon the shore beneath the shadow of a ruined castle in Whitby. Khol-eyed. Delirious. Late ‘90s FMV video games showing guts and blades in a fictional version of Soho on a rainy night like those nights at uni when the future was forever and not just a reflection of the past. Heads in the TV—clitoral stimulation. Cunnilingus as my fingers search for meaning in a landscape I don’t know but call home. Tristen? Isolde? Streets in London that lead to alleys in Wycombe that birth memories on buses from Luton to Dunstable as the gum in my mouth bears the impressions of the secret madness I try my best to keep hidden, but people see through me. They always do. If only I didn’t have the habit of babbling so much. Batteries in the fridge. Red Bulls in the freezer. An ancient pagan alphabet as the taste of her thighs splashes across my tongue like the prickly points of a shiny pentagram. The night swims. The waves of her inner tide glisten like saliva dripping from nipples. These hours are for fried chicken, teenage fears and the chimes of daydreams that cover a body like the hands of lovers that once coveted yours but not anymore. You’re getting old. All full of holes, like a carpet riddled with cigarette burns, or a thief in the favela, begging for forgiveness, but God is busy right now, so no.