Saturday, December 10


I like that tonight the moon is so bright it seems like a limp spectre of the sun. A miserable younger brother, perhaps. It is so bright that it casts a shadow off of me and turns my back garden into a cyanotype print. The weeds that have made it through the cracks between the paving slabs have frozen and crunch underneath me. It is their sound that I hear late at night. I feel disconcertedly lonely, not just alone. All I would like is a girl. Why can’t I just have a girl? The lids of my eyes feel woolly and soft. The other night down a dark road I saw a couple—always a couple—walking towards me, arms around each other’s waists. The road is straight and leads right down to the sea. Even at that time of night you can see the sea lying there, straight as anything and darker than the sky. The road, on each side, is sodden with rotting summer leaves and the leaves have been run into the tarmac by passing cars.
I like the glass of wine my mother donated to me. It is fruity. It is very fruity, of berries & such. When I carried it up to my room and took a sip, I said to myself, with utter conviction, “Very fruity.” If my mother were here I would tell her how fruity I thought it was and she would just remind me not to drink the whole bottle. It is, after all, her bottle. When I go for a cigarette the glass cools and the wine cools with it. All I wanted to do to-
night was get drunk and stare into space with Hamsun but now I’m wrapped up in how quickly my red wine is getting cold and I am not drunk! This, though, is better than the cheap red I buy. The stuff I buy tastes of nothing but the pain it’ll take to piss out in the morning. I should make more effort, I think, become a connoisseur of such things.
I like that when I wake up on the train in the evenings the right side of the socket of my right eye is affected by the temperature of the window I have just rested it upon to sleep. There are lots of Christmas lights on the new shopping centre next to the railway line. The trails of yellowy-white lights are offset, somewhat grotesquely, by the big t.v. screens advertising makeup foundation & casinos. As I look out—my head rested on the glass—my breath very slowly steams up the pane and my vision is blurred. Then I know it is time to sleep. No one opens the windows anymore. It is quite safe to sleep in here. The carriage will be empty by the time I wake up because I know—let me tell you—exactly what I am doing. One travels a path so many times that eventually you begin to know where you are from the lights and the shapes on the horizon of the night sky. I know the lights & shapes that pass by the window of the train. They are far away yet discernible.

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