I am no artist.
I just drank some tea. My throat feels scratchy and I'm about to call it a night. Half an hour ago my eyes turned on faucets, just as I began a phone conversation. I supplied an embarassing mash of incoherent and unfinished sentences. And then silence. I don't expect anything, from anyone. I just don't want to be held back by this shit shit shit of a situation. I want to forget about it and go away, anywhere. To Brunswick, to London, to the edge of the world. I'll drink some more tea and i'll write, and i'll hum 'Stella was a diver...' to myself. But for now I'll just drink the rest of my earl grey cold, brush my teeth and try to fall asleep. Cheers.