sad little end of reality

Past the legless crackhead in a wheelchair begging for cash outside the Co-op – “I’m a veteran, mate.” “Which war?” “The fucking war on drugs, mate” – flashing you the wreckage of his teeth as his head tilts back like he’s resetting his internal gyroscope, skipping through the dogshit and the sinister underwear, now that you’ve stopped getting married all the time you’re largely sat there on your own, unable to access the part of your brain that deals with performing emotion, no likes, no dislikes, no hopes or dreams or tears, locked in a dusty little room, bemused and dying and drowning as reality tears apart with an awful, protracted stutter.

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