November dark and mystifying crash courses in aimless, plotless loss of direction. Late night cocktails and pick-a-back rides down the middle of the road at midnight. Bruce Lee on the telly. Standing on doorsteps and talking to the stars about sapphires. Half hidden ghosts of boyfriends and girlfriends future, past and present. The night collapsing. Lungs emptied. Convulsions in the desolate early morning; waking nightmares, stinging tears on the pillow and a rug full of vomit. Weeping for the things that are lost and never to be found. Thoughts of the hopes to come. Flickers doused by more alcohol and an idle cigarette. Pull down the shades, slip on the ice, fall through the holes.
These are the things I remember.
I’m not even sure why.
The Chameleons – ‘Swamp Thing’