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
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
.
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..

































































