6am. Wake up on the kitchen floor – not because I was drunk (or anymore drunk than usual) or because I passed out while making a sandwich, but because this is where I sleep these days. I used to sleep on the sofa in the front room, but find it too noisy in there nowadays. Sirens and churchbells and car crashes and people being shot with tasers and drunks screaming and shrieking just outside the window – next door, the girl who throws shitty nappies and wet wipes out into the street plays whatever bass heavy, music light crap that dimly functioning young people enjoy these days – above, the middle aged man who thinks he’s an important musician is either tapping away on his organ or droning dolefully like a tired wind sighing through the telephone wires. So now, when all this noise starts, usually in the early evening, I drag my pillows and duvets through to the kitchen and sleep on the floor. 6am. Wake up. Try to go back to sleep. Fail. A few deep breaths. Haul myself upright. Kettle on. Cigarette rolled. Laptop on. Instantly break all last night’s – and every recent night’s – resolution that I will not throw myself straight back down that endless, ever darkening rabbit hole that is my time on the internet. The news is that everything’s still falling apart, but it’s like we’re at the event horizon, on the fly paper at the rim of catastrophe – everything’s falling apart forever, never actually getting there. Everyone on Twitter’s still sniping at each other and throwing the same grenades they’ve been throwing forever, back and forth, in and out of each other’s trenches. Smoke a cigarette I told myself I wouldn’t smoke, skip a breakfast I told myself I wouldn’t skip, stare red eyed and hopeless at the day yawning before me. That’s morning.