Following the wall, I trace the way with my fingers until I stumble into a coffee shop. The pictures on display are like snow globes. When I reach out and touch them, they come alive, sending my mind spiralling into a frenzy of nostalgic thoughts. The place is buzzing. The people are bees. It used to be a place selling muffins. Came with my parents once when I was nursing a hangover one Saturday in my days at university. In many ways, life is still the same. The pieces remain as they were, they’ve merely changed position. Sometimes, you notice, and then at others, they shift when you’re not looking. Placing one foot in front of the other, I move in circles like a fly before buzzing off at random. Not even the biting cold can snatch me away from my favoured state. Tesco? Yeah, I guess. For some wine and food that tastes as good as a milky tit. Place is full of reckless creatures and art students. It’s difficult to tell them apart. Through squinted eyes, I traverse the aisles as if blind. I’ve not got much money. Never have. Just enough to buy that which is bad for the heart but good for my art. It’ll keep me up long into the night. The night is my favourite stage. It’s the only place where I never fear to tread, where I bask without shame in the glow of the midnight sun. Right now, though, I’m looking at the packets of Haribo thinking about which one will go best with my frozen pizza. Such crippling decisions. Such triviality to take the sting out of the creativity that will most likely fail to materialise until I’m three sheets to the wind.