"An ever-intriguing writer."
"A genuine talent."



Just Another Wretched Sunday Morning

You'd think I might be used to this by now.
My head all alone on the pillow.
A carpet of last night's bourbon on my tongue.
You'd think I might be used to this by now, but no.
I've been behaving like a puppy-dog chasing it's own tail.
Like a fool.
Like a chump.
Like a patsy.
Like a motherfucking shmuck.
There are simply too many people in London and not enough space.
Bottom line. There’s no way around it. It’s just the way of things.
We live all ontop of each other; stacked corpses in our private catacombs.
On some mornings, the walls and the ceilings feel paper thin.
I can hear the neighbours breathing in the flat upstairs.
I can hear the neighbours in the flat next door slurping tea.
Above and to the left of me I can hear my neighbours laughing.
Through the wall. Through the ceiling.
And it feels like they're laughing at me.



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