Late in the day to be dragging myself free of last night’s pharmaceutical swamp and standing upright on shaky man legs somewhat horrified by the direction this evolution thing seems to be heading in. But what to do now? How many dead hours to hack through to get back to empty, dreamless sleep? Too many. So what to do? Should I crawl out from under the duvet, through the ash and the crumbs and the shredded notepaper and seek some kind of understanding with the day ahead? Should I walk down to the shop and buy booze and spend the afternoon mixing alcohol with benzodiazepines til sleep or tawdry euphoria blots out the endless, senseless hours of unattended Netflix? Should I haul my stinking carcass into the shower and make myself presentable and surface onto the night time streets and try to be a human – doing what they do, wanting what they want, making my face do the things their faces do until they take me as one of their own and indulge my uncertain desires, draw me close to their clogged, slowly beating hearts in some ghastly interspecies confusion? Or do I go and visit my dealer and get a bag of weed and sit at home pretending I’m the funniest man on Facebook, delighting the world with my searing insights and shimmering humour? Or do I sit here, staring at this hopeless little screen, a sheen of cold sweat on my hands, full bladder straining and nagging at a body too lazy to move, just. doing. nothing.