There’s light on my face. The dreary hangover kind, uninvited but there all the same. It dances across the lines in my brow before jumping to the wall where it gives shape to invisible feeling. There’s sleight of hand. Curtains rippling in the breeze as piss shoots from my limp dick into the toilet. The glare of the midnight sun hits the window, showering me with dry magic. I’m reborn, but dead all the same. The Queen died the other day. She came to my hometown a few years back. I was sleeping. She was never real to me. Nothing is real until it’s too late. That’s how it goes. The meaning behind a moment never grasped until what was real has ripened to the state of decay. The days are becoming grey. Where there was once colour there’s now a dull ache the kind you get when you lose a tooth. On the doorstep swallowed in smoke, sticks make strange shapes on the ground by my feet, some spelling the names of those I once knew, others the names of those who came before me. I guess they’re still out there, somewhere, but the roads they walked have long since forked from those resembling mine.