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| you don�t see people like me on tv. we hide in rooms the size of phone boxes with bottles of wine and dreams to keep us warm and only go out at night or in the rain, when everyone else is indoors with their families or working late in their centrally heated offices. they are the ones who have never had a pain in their bones so great that it cripples every sense and renders every muscle useless and flaccid. they are the ones who do not feel rot setting into their eyes, ears, limbs and even the roots of their hair and teeth. and a doorbell rings but it isn�t mine, so i open another bottle, drink in the honey sweet liquid and wait until it brings oblivion, into which the evening and my body will sink. then sleep� and a thousand dreams of golden angels and green fields burning into a darkness filled with twisted shapes and the long-dead faces of people i never knew from old newspapers and photo albums. strangers always look strange, like murderers or rapists or a dead fairytale hero, strangled by his own happiness. another dawn seeps through the curtains with its customary enthusiasm (which i do not share). its another day. another six o�clock alarm call from mother nature herself. but, today, i�m checking out of my solitary hotel; breaking out of my prison of tatty bed sheets and soiled underwear. today i am going to save my soul. | |