Piddling rainslicked snarl of a night, cruel bar shift dragging on, bin juice on hands, smeared juice on jeans, mind roiling with the beginnings of a cold. Finally home to Earl Grey steaming and Chopin soaring and desk and keyboard aflame in whirring darkness.
I notice these things. I feel the moisture in the cool night air. The streetlamps casting pools of light upon the wet ground. The pressure of my gluteal muscles against the chair. Debussy over my television’s cheap inbuilt speakers. The clutter around this attic bedroom.
I am here. I am in here. In flesh and thought and blood. I’m skeleton and toes and regrets and heartbeats, I’m a failing flickering memory of a dream.
OK, that’s all I got. That’s all the words that are inside me on this cruel coiling October night. That’s good. Well done, Robbie. Well done for saying some words. I’ve been doing this blog for ages now. I’m not ever going to stop. I have no idea where it’s going. It’s going somewhere though. It’s a toboggan ride at midnight, only steering round a tree at a time. That’s as it should be.
Sleep now. Off tomorrow and there are towels to be washed and a shower to be scrubbed and bed sheets to be changed and foodstuffs to be purchased. Will the thrills of adult life never end?
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