The days that touch my soul are the wasted ones. Those with their eerie silences at three in the morning as I’m unable to sleep in this unbearable heat, the nights of summer reminding me of what it’s like to live in the heart of another. Sometimes I forget. Life has a habit of slipping away like that, y’know? Like how the remote for the TV always finds its way down the back of the sofa, or how your lighter finds refuge in a hidey place in your pocket even though you’ve searched the fucker a dozen times over. Sundays in bed. Sweat dripping out of me despite the breeze from the fan blowing over my balls. Looking out the window, smoking cigarettes trying to find meaning in the footprints I’ve left, I remain sprawled motionless for the best part of the day. Sometimes, if I’m on my side, and the acid in my belly subsides, it suddenly all makes sense, and the love in my heart shines as bright as the stars that twinkle over the slums stretching all the way to London. That dirty old town, where all the rich pigs roll around in rich man’s shit. Give me the country any day. Give me a petrified forest where I may become one with the trees and exist in a state far removed from the grubby mitts of those grubby pigs whose only desire is to suckle the world dry of the dreams we keep inside.