a tour of familiar places where I’m lost in a hugging crowd. detached and useless and pitied, alone in the corner with a drooping face and red eyes, acting out the inevitable scenario. it’s all so fucking predictable. why not drink ourselves comatose and sleep it off on the bank of the thames, down by the comfortable curve of deptford where I will rest my head on thirsty bricks and ragged faces half buried in the rust red sand. you should see their whisky eyes all confused by the time of day. the beginning seems just like the end.