It’s either this or lie worried in bed beneath the same ceiling, disabled by the dark, by the same aches, the same scolding worries that course through my veins, night after night, and day after poxy day, like lacerating currents of black electric, like odd wild cries in a small wood. It’s either this or plagued thoughts of work; of wood panels and corporate gloom and the all pervading mundane madness of the office. And how I belong to that place like a chair, or an envelope; and not as the boy who once looked out of windows with a smile.
A dim desire of annihilation stretches within me, but tonight I’m sticking with these faces framed by the ‘goggle box’ as my dear mother used to call it, back then; sticking with these friends I can’t tell others about; these friends who make some kind of strange sense to me, here tonight; who, in the end, may prevail where others have failed. So just leave me here for an hour or so. I’m not as tired as the rest. And that waiting bed upstairs can be a cold and cruel place when it’s just you and your thoughts and scant scraps of sleep.

- Austin Collings

 

15.06.08 - 00.38am

15.06.08 - 02.36am

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