23:22 and an uncaught fatal error

<?start
add_inaction( ‘unkempt_spirit’, ‘what_have_you_got’ );
remove_action( ‘putrefaction_status’, ‘don’t tell’ );
func­tion barely_barely_barely( $nothing ) {

hardly_started();
?>
overdo : {
this : {
‘back­ground’ : ‘always_the_background’
}
},
<?what
echo echo echo never_get_clean();

}
end?>

02:51 and scratching the ceiling

Telling everything to fuck off. No, I’m not fas­cin­at­ing. Not a bit of it. If you believe that then please, I insist, come and live inside my body and my mind and see how long it takes before you’re dig­ging into walls, face, eyes and skin, revol­ted by the sheer men­tal tedium of it, the empty opera, the shud­der­ing echoes, growl­ing and gnaw­ing to get out, out and out again. No one can scream loud enough for my lik­ing. No one can scream loud enough. Scream loud enough. Scream loud enough. Scream. 

Mind where you put your dirty fin­gers and your grimy hands. I don’t want to see marks there in thirty years or so, do I?

When I lift my face from the key­board, pum­melled, I’ve been talk­ing to news­casters. Tell me who’s killing who,  go on, give me a sickly laugh or two. I may as well act like the bas­tard they, those people out there, seem­ingly all want me to be. 

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. WAKE UP. WAKE UP. WAKE UP. WAKE UP. WAKE UP. I NEED TO… oh, noth­ing. It’s clearly not import­ant now, is it?

This pil­low is scen­ted with sweat, skin and silence. This bed a linger­ing psychosis. 

14:16 and all/none of the wrong people

I know all the wrong songs for every occa­sion. And even when there isn’t an occa­sion. Whole albums of the stuff to send me reel­ing the wrong way. Here she is, get­ting out the scrap­book. Did we used to live like this? Did we really used to live like this? (We did. And some of us still do.)

22:17 and looking for footprints

I star­ted work at approx­im­ately 10.00am this morn­ing. I’m just fin­ish­ing now, hav­ing paused for barely half an hour in that time. I’m not look­ing for sym­pathy. I’m doing this out of neces­sity, both prac­tical (roof over head) and emo­tional (oh, you know).

This is now my diary, evid­ently. This is now a diary. This is a diary. Diary. The diary into which I always swore it would never degen­er­ate. But a diary of what, exactly? A barely func­tional existence?

Caught my reflec­tion briefly in the mir­ror. Bomb site. Bomb site. I want to help my face along the path to urban degen­er­a­tion by plant­ing small incen­di­ary devices all over it.

I should stop remem­ber­ing. Don’t remem­ber and don’t look for­ward. Just use up the minutes and hours because they’re there and that’s what has to be done, or else they linger annoyingly.

08:52 and bathing my eyes

The pil­low is damp. Dreams so real I wished to touched them, before they were pushed aside by night­mares that had no such hes­it­a­tion in lay­ing on their tight, clammy-handed touch. It’s clear I don’t sleep like the inno­cent. It’s clear I need sleep that turns off my mind. 

And now more work. Must work. No music, no con­ver­sa­tion, no pauses, noth­ing that could attempt to prise an emo­tional response from me. Just work until sleep returns. 

23:22 and one last thought

Don’t ever desire any­thing. Espe­cially not warmth, com­pan­ion­ship and a few pre­cious moments of close­ness. No mat­ter how old you are. No mat­ter how much you miss them. 

Go back to hat­ing. To hatred. It’s no good for you either, but at least the bile and loath­ing makes you scream louder. At least it makes you makes you makes you oh I don’t fuck­ing well know. 

Oh, and take care when you’re a child. 

23:15 and it always seems to be 23:15

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick 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tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick TICK

22:53 and whispering to my hand

See, just between ourselves, while no one’s listening…

Obvi­ously there’s all the stuff we know about. Talk­ing, laugh­ing, jok­ing, dis­cuss­ing, listen­ing. Just… being, for want of a bet­ter word. Being. I’ve for­got­ten about how to simply be.

But there’s also touch. Occa­sional touch. Just a brushed hand, for instance. A brief embrace. Merely that. It’s sur­pris­ingly fun­da­mental to the human exper­i­ence. And my fin­ger­nails have grown tired of taunt­ing my rebelling skin in the name of sickly entertainment.

22:28 and listening to drunken passers-by

In my first few years liv­ing here, the con­stant noise out­side was com­fort. Traffic, sirens, people, all the rest. I would some­times let a thin smile cross my lips as I listened to the drunken men and women passing by five floors below my win­dow, usu­ally on a Fri­day or Sat­urday night, shout­ing or singing.

Now I hate them. And I loathe their mind­less noise. I joke about pour­ing boil­ing oil on the lot of them. The joke is: that’s no joke. Not boil­ing oil, but worse.

My viol­ent thoughts scare me. I know they’ll never go any fur­ther, but still they scare me. The graphic nature of them. The hatred wrapped around them, pulsing through them, even­tu­ally strangling them, shak­ing them, suck­ing the bloody life out of them.

Here, for me, is the biggest irony of being affected by patho­lo­gical l********s, turn­ing me into an exhausted, wild-eyed lun­atic. I need someone to tell me, con­vin­cingly, that patho­lo­gical l********s is okay, will be okay, can be okay, must be okay. That you find your way through it. That you learn to live with your­self and not tear at your skin. That you learn all that, accept all that, live all that, find a point to liv­ing all that. That’s the irony. I need someone here to tell me those things (and say it like they mean it, not just as so many dim, dull platitudes).

BECAUSE I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF THE PLATITUDES.

22:14 and here we were again

I’ve been obsess­ing lately — oh, about many things, of course — but I’ve been par­tic­u­larly obsess­ing about his­tory and about home. Wherever that is, was and will be. I’ve been telling myself, though not very con­vin­cingly, that if I could only go back ‘home’ — that being the place I spent the first eight­een years of my life, the place to which I said a long good­bye in the sum­mer of 1989 and from where I ima­gined a long future — then some aspects of my life might make more sense. Maybe, some­how, I’d find the ground­ing I lack, the com­fort I lack, the warmth I lack.

It’s idiocy. That place ruined me, in more ways than one. Why would I want to go back there, except to look around, nod briefly in recog­ni­tion, and draw my final rat­tling breaths?

My skin is rebelling again. What has it got to rebel about? I don’t know. I wish it would tell me. Maybe it just wants to be off me and out of here. Still, I dig my fin­ger­nails in and make a purple patch­work of it. Stay a while, why don’t you?

10:09 and clutching the other

Maybe it’s time for a new per­sonal modus operandi built around Not Telling. At all costs, don’t tell. Keep your mouth shut. The cat isn’t always relieved to be let out of the bag. Some­times even the most faith­ful feline is — cruelly, without a doubt — best forced, yowl­ing and hiss­ing, into a refuse sack and thrown in the fast-flowing river. It’s a mangy beast anyway.

Words aren’t always bet­ter out than in. Some­times they’re left locked up with good reason, along with all the other heir­looms, faded pho­to­graphs, dark his­tor­ies and warped imaginings.

I fol­low a line between keep­ing quiet about everything, not a word spoken, and purge, pur­ging, purged, scream­ing and shout­ing and eff­ing and blind­ing and curs­ing and vent­ing. I veer wildly between the polar oppos­ites, because walk­ing is not my strongest suite. 

I’m tired. I’ve got my head down for now, stay­ing hushed and uncer­tain, wary, quiet as a mouse. There are not enough hours in the day, yet I still want to work through all of them. Don’t stop for any­thing, espe­cially not think­ing. Immerse myself in code, num­bers, sym­bols and gram­mar until I’m prop­ping my eyes open with sting­ing liz­ards. Keep mind­lessly tapping. 

For­get­ting is for the best.

21:36 and heavy with filth

I am cur­rently try­ing to main­tain a semi-respectable pub­lic per­sona, even as I give in to an urge to sub­merge myself in deprav­ity and dis­gust a while. I have hit new levels of vile­ness that shame me to the core.

I should not think of events from thirty years past; I should not recall late-night, hushed con­ver­sa­tions that crossed ten thou­sand miles almost a dec­ade ago.

The shame, how­ever, only resides within these four fifth-floor walls, then within this dam­aged skin, then within this putrid mind. But I am sickened sense­less. Sickened sense­less by myself.

I should be more obvi­ous. Make an attempt at cleans­ing and con­fes­sion. I should admit to all — even dis­gust­ing inven­tions of my own sub­con­scious that never came to pass — and rip my attempts at a respect­able outer life to shreds, expose the tan­gible ugli­ness beneath to the world at large (or, in truth, the world at small, since my vista is cur­rently tiny) and offer out invit­a­tions to explor­ing fin­gers to press them­selves into the rot­ten meat, to grab at some gristle or rip out a use­less organ or two.

I have a mas­ochistic streak that is seek­ing reas­ons for people to abhor me, loathe me, delete me from their exper­i­ences, wipe me from their memor­ies. Please do help your­self. Please do. Help your­self. Dig in.

20:54 and blinking into being

I find the likely pro­spect of what the future holds to be a truly ter­ri­fy­ing one. It sick­ens me to the core. That makes the altern­at­ive a far more wel­com­ing, com­fort­ing vista to visit. Plot­ting the escape, a final­ity, an end. It can’t come soon enough.

I genu­inely fear this cursed loneli­ness will con­sume me with its mad­ness, as the voices screech their gib­ber­ing hosan­nas into my echo­ing skull. I want out before that. Before I lose my mind irrevocably.

I don’t know how to stop that all com­ing to pass, though. I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how. I don’t know.

I don’t have much belief in myself. Or indeed, any belief. But I know, I believe — as I said yes­ter­day — that I deserve this. This, this place where I now find myself as I head towards my mid-forties, is my pun­ish­ment for my sins and fail­ures. I deserve this. Don’t try and con­vince me oth­er­wise, because my argu­ment will be that if I don’t deserve this, then why? Why this?

Scrape me off. Scrape me off like shit from a shoe.

The rain. The rain is caus­ing these droplets in my hair. Maybe. If it really is the rain. I have my doubts. I have my doubts. I’m not sure of any­thing except final­ity, escape, the end.

19:12 and throttled at source

No, you’re right, I don’t really have the words for it.

13:14 and undeserving granite

Pay me some lip ser­vice. You’re so good at that. But please, don’t bite this time. I have teeth­marks all over me.

I genu­inely believe I don’t deserve any­thing other than to be kicked, slapped, punched, beaten, pun­ished, hurt, raped, pil­laged, abused and, in the final act, doused in pet­rol and set alight. Burn me, you fuck­ers. Burn me, you glower­ing fuck­ers. Burn me. Point and laugh as the flames fly through me and into my bones, char­ring and scar­ring me for good and gone.

That is not the height of drama speak­ing. That is not hys­teria (for hys­teria has been and gone already today). That is cold, cold-hearted, rational, sens­ible thought borne out of real life.

I genu­inely believe it. Don’t expect any hap­pi­ness and you won’t be dis­ap­poin­ted (except that’s not true, because you will be dis­ap­poin­ted, but it’ll be a slow, creep­ing dis­ap­point­ment that gradu­ally con­sumes your whole body and mind over the course of many years).

Above all, I don’t deserve warmth (let’s not even refer to that other word; that’s impossible, we’ll stick with warmth). Real­ising this, I turn my face against it. I vow to become — in a phrase I’m keen to throw around as much as pos­sible until I believe it — “a hard-faced cunt”, cold and hate­ful of everything and everyone.

I fail, of course. Need­less to say. I fail at let­ting the cold and hate com­pletely over­take me. There is a gap in the gran­ite, a single gun emplace­ment from which I will stage my futile final stand — for how­ever many years I can carry on until, exhausted, I turn the gun on myself.

The prob­lem, of course, is that while that single, small gap in the gran­ite facade enables me to take aim — short-sightedness and all — at every oncom­ing marauder, it allows their breaths to reach me too. It reminds me that some­where, once, I had the capa­city for warmth. It reminds me that I still, some­how, desire its return, no mat­ter how much the stone may try and deny it. No mat­ter how much I try to blot that out.

Keep reload­ing, shoot­ing haphaz­ardly at what’s out there, whatever and whomever I can see. Take inac­cur­ate aim, fire at will, shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Come on, come on, just try me, just push me, just will me, just force me, just you fuck­ing well try it.

Until I reach the last bul­let from my weapons cache. The one I’ve reserved for me. The one that puts an end to this fal­lible, weak and entirely human desire for warmth.

Until I turn the gun on myself.

lost thread oblique spread attach gone wend down aside not sure for cer­tain side­ways gone across and reach attach again again again press against heartrend attach some­thing attach missed missed missed clutch for mean­ing not sure not cer­tain just cling

08:46 and plotting with matchsticks

I want to be able to leave my bed as soon as I wake, breathe in, pause, sur­vey, pick up, pro­gress, move on, achieve, suc­ceed, breathe out, sat­isfy. Instead I lie there for an hour plot­ting the day’s strategies to avoid myself, my thoughts, my obses­sions, my memor­ies, my mind, my scabs and the cease­less babble until it’s time to crawl back under the cov­ers and fit­fully sleep. And then begin again. Sleep again. Begin again. Repeat ad infinitum.

“Hello. Sorry. Too late. We’re here. Now, are you listen­ing? Oh, of course you’re listen­ing. We have a packed sched­ule for you today. Let’s begin.”

Abhor and abort.

23:08 and exhaling for variety

Remind­ing myself I exist by remind­ing myself I exist to remind myself I exist and then remind­ing myself I exist. It’s all about remind­ing myself I exist, in these days and these ways. Gath­er­ing detritus and hold­ing it to noth­ing, to a yanked-out heart and a mis­shapen mind, attempt­ing to build a ground­ing on two strands of string.

I’ve been try­ing to recall how I thought it would be, but I can’t remem­ber. Back ten years to look for­ward ten years? Noth­ing. I only sense that I thought it wouldn’t be like this. Yet I can’t be sure. That makes me wary of think­ing how it might be in another ten, because I worry that when ‘might’ becomes ‘is’, I won’t recol­lect what I was think­ing dur­ing these years, months, weeks and hours. Even minutes. Minutes too long, beep beep beep beep dead.

There goes one. One minute. No idea.

Today found me — dug me up, exhumed and dumped on a verge some­where — trapped in a miasma of barely tram­melled rage, aggres­sion, des­per­ate to break loose, to scream, to shout, to hurt (both men­tally and phys­ic­ally). But there was noth­ing to hit, noth­ing to smash, noth­ing to injure that would sat­isfy such a despic­able urge. Listen, listen you, listen all of you, there never is. Never is, never will be, never was.

And so I attemp­ted work, attemp­ted to lose myself in code and col­ours and files and fixes, but it wouldn’t go, it wouldn’t go, it wouldn’t go. I poisoned myself on caf­feine, nursed my acci­dent­ally bruised and cut face, ges­tic­u­lated to noth­ing, silently opened and closed my mouth to taste the air, grabbed at skin and bat­ted away ima­gin­ary insects and thought of things I shouldn’t think about. In detail. In too much detail.

Tonight, I leave my door unlocked in the hope of mur­der­ous strangers.

10:51 and scouting for normal

I dreamt of two num­bers, indi­vidu­als of the same shape and value, mov­ing towards each other. They were intent, unstop­pable. I wanted to tell them to halt, dial them­selves back, reduce, sub­tract one and dimin­ish by eleven, but I didn’t have the words to shout. Or the energy. 

What’s the story there? List three appar­ently pos­it­ive human qual­it­ies and then apply the whiteout to them. We should learn that their true value is next to noth­ing in anyone’s bullet-point list, no mat­ter how much they may try and deny it. You can tell your­self they count for some­thing, but you won’t even get as far as num­ber three before you choke on your sentiments. 

If you’re look­ing for a tar­get, it’s my mouth. See here? Attack pose. Start on the mouth, then work your way up to the brain, crush, then to the heart, knife. My liver, kid­neys and any other organs you require (not desire) are avail­able for trans­plant or med­ical incineration. 

I don’t know what day it is. Not really. Oh, I can see it. Of course. Tech­no­logy reminds me. But the actual mean­ing of the day? What it’s sup­posed to sig­nify in terms of pro­gress through a week? Noth­ing. I don’t have the same charts and maps that oth­ers seem to take for gran­ted. Everything has merged into one blurred, undefin­able day of hours, of weeks, of fort­nights and months. At least until the next year. Next year. Fuck, next year. 

Is this the new nor­mal? If so, I haven’t had the train­ing course. I don’t have my com­ple­tion cer­ti­fic­ate. Just a torn instruc­tion leaf­let writ­ten in an inde­cipher­able lan­guage and remain­ing unspoken in an impen­et­rable tongue.

Your tongue is impen­et­rable, though it once told all. 

Skin hun­ger: 9.8 and rising. 

18:43 and the sign of the cross

Ward me off with gar­lic (then sate me with warm words). Just don’t for­get that I’m no pred­ator (I don’t have the killer instinct). I’m not mad either (though, indeed, I am mad). I don’t need to be told twice (though I will smile and nod as I’m told once). I will, I will (oh yes, I will). Smile and nod (all I ask is that you smile and nod).

I need you to teach me the shoulder-shrug of indif­fer­ence (I’m try­ing to be indif­fer­ent and fail­ing). Edu­cate me in the sigh of dis­in­terest (I can’t do dis­in­terest on com­mand). Give me the “Well…” of sub-text (just another word in the well of sub-text). Soothe my fur­rowed brow with the “Any­way…” of “Let’s change the sub­ject” (though there are no other sub­jects, because trust me I’ve been look­ing for them). I can’t see the wood for the trees (yet there are no trees, only fallen leaves and torn branches).

If you’re uncom­fort­able, then let me tell you about these rusty spikes on which I’m sat (but if you’re com­fort­able, then I’m com­fort­able too).

I’m smil­ing and nod­ding (smile, nod). I’m swal­low­ing your sub-text (sub, text). I’m gor­ging on what little I can get (little, get). Because I’m more than hungry (more, hungry). Because I’m without sense or scruples (sense, scruples).

Smile. Nod. Smile. Nod. Shoulders shrugged. Dis­in­terest sighed. Sub­ject changed. Sub-text. Eat. Eat. Eat. Feed me. I’m starving.