Stumbling into the bathroom with a mild hangover, I thrust an earbud into my ear. The sensation as I probe away is enough to put a tingle in my dick. Peeling back my foreskin, I contemplate masturbation, but my head hurts too much. Everything spins. My bones. The ground. Instead, I make a coffee and smoke a cigarette, which only serves to make things worse. Outside, the smoke from a chimney dances with the clouds, and together they fuck and create rain. I’m mostly redundant. A documentary on Netflix told me so. The chemist across the road never turns off its lights, and so late into the night, I stare into the colourful haze, imagining I’m five years old again and it’s Christmas. The moon is a mournful face, and for some reason, I can’t help but think about the dog in the petrol station my mother and I would drive by on my way to school back in the late ‘80s. The petrol station was near where they built the Sainsbury’s which stands to this day. It was a security dog. It didn’t do anything. Just sat by the window waiting for its owner to return. When we’d drive past, my mother and I would point at it until, one day, the ritual stopped without us even knowing. The petrol station was demolished nearly thirty years ago. I wonder if the bones of the dog are still around? I wonder if a hundred years from now anyone will remember me the way I remember the dog? That if someone will know of the love in my heart, or if the sparks of my confused time here will resemble vague memories drifting around streets littered with junk like arteries clogged with cholesterol?