Friday night and the monkeys at the pub next door are just getting started – another couple of hours and they’ll be wanking in the street and slinging shit at each other, angry apes dragging their chipped and curling Poundland beauties home for a night of spittle flecked abuse and the bruised knuckles of lost and broken grown-up children.
I can’t swim away – the sea expands to keep the shore forever from sight, the land is unattainable. So wish for death – in a half-hearted way – now that life’s too far to reach. Think yourself lucky that in a world where other people are starving and being butchered in war that you live in a world where other people are starving and being butchered in war and there’s nothing but a glitch in the machinery of fate that made them them and you you but anyone who finds succour in dwelling on the fact that no matter how miserable their life is, there are countless multitudes with lives more wretched, is some kind of madman. We’re all cells in the same decaying carcass – some just get to perform their pointless processes in less revolting cuts of meat than others.
So Happy New Year, she said – I think this is going to be the best one – and I openly admired her optimism while feeling a little sad that she could be so childlike in her enduring faith that things move towards a just and happy resolution instead of tumbling inevitably into increasing chaos and suffering. Another year waiting to drown in that empty, endless sea, listening to the drunks singing in the street, the pounding, mindless soundtrack of the girl next door seeping through the wall, the coughing and shuffling and snoring and moaning seeping through the floorboards above, the absolute lack of connection, the roaring of the sands of time running through a filthy hourglass into a bowl of tears and blood