The smell of spices when I go outside. The world getting dark. The air cold on my arms. It is the first day of the end of summer. Walking to the shop in the dusk, with the light failing and the streets empty and a car alarm wailing, I feel the loneliness of the world. In the shop the bulbs are strong yet heartless, everyone has their heads down, lost in their plans for the evening, and for tomorrow, and for ever afterwards. Home to an empty house, cooking stir fry in a silent kitchen with the rest of the rooms dark. The cooker blinking. Phace's trainers lying on the linoleum. Dirty glasses pointing at the ceiling. What a forlorn night. Shudder that runs right down the soul. Up the stairs to a computer humming, to lamp shining, to bright videogame worlds to keep me warm.
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