The wind wraps around my limbs like polythene. I’m a bag of bones. Chicken bones, guzzled up by moggies hungry for something other than Kitty Kat. Riddled with self-doubt, desperation scatters like leaves in the parking lot of a supermarket at four in the morning. Like a statue, I stand alone. Observing the world and how it will one day turn without me, the coins in my pocket are tiny galaxies. The lint on my trousers not lint at all but failed stars drifting through the universe until that fateful Sunday in the future when entropy reigns supreme. Some time later, I’m pissing in the kitchen sink, unable to reach the bathroom in time. As my limbs grow weak, gravitational waves pulsate through the walls shaking loose the fillings in my teeth. I’m next to you, but I’m not. I’m alive yet dead, typing words better left unread because time and time again, the right moment slips away, like fingers losing their grip on a bridge or a plastic bag dancing down the street on some rainy night in Soho. On my bed, drunk and distraught, things fall apart with each breath, then moments later, I’m reborn. I don’t want to be. I just am. Masturbating in my drunken stupor, the stars align, and I flicker like the flame of a candle, here, there and everywhere. A cigarette releases a demon. The demon is my haircut—all wavy and seductive with no morals whatsoever. Grimacing as the little death whips me into a storm, the sperms in me that will never be splatter into a crumpled tissue. Sometimes they shoot into her mouth, other times over her breasts. Such an oily mess, but when it comes to lust, I expect nothing less.