Writing – The Tale of The Live Chameleons: Chapter 6

The Tale of The Live Chameleons




Stewart Thornton sat and looked at his reflection in the bedroom mirror. His fair hair hung just below his jaw and his features were thin and half hidden beneath scrubs of fuzzy facial fluff.  He sighed. Opening a draw in the cabinet below the mirror he removed a plastic box, a large pair of scissors and a cassette tape. Taking the cassette tape he got up and put it in the stereo, pressed rewind then play. The speakers hissed as the tape began then the loud sound of dance music blasted out. Stewart Thornton stood on the spot nodding his head in time to the bass drum – boom,boom,boom,boom,boom,boom,boom,boom.

He remembered this track, from nineteen ninety-seven, he would have been eight or nine back then, he looked at the cassette box, The Drome 97.

Once again he sighed.

Moving back to the cabinet he opened the plastic box, inside there was a set of electric hair clippers, he plugged them in then sat down and stared into the mirror. Picking up the scissors in his right hand he began hacking at his hair, chopping away. Taking chunks of hair here and slices of hair here his wild barbery fell in time with the music and he was cutting  – boom,boom,boom,boom and hair fell about the place, his fair locks covering the cabinet surface boom,boom,boom,boom boom,boom,boom,boom the music was reaching it’s peak, a break coming up boom,boom,boom …..Stewart looked up at the mirror, he grinned when he saw his reflection then laughed.

“I look like Worzel Gummage when he’s got his Mental Patient head on.”

The DJ on the tape had begun mixing another track in. Stewart Thornton smiled gently.

He took the hair clippers and set it to number two. He didn’t want a skinhead but it had to be short. He switched the clippers on and began shaving. His remaining hair came off easily and he even managed to shave his back of his head without too much difficulty.  Next Stewart took from the drawer an electric razor and removed the fluffy hair from his cheeks and finished by shaving in a goatee style beard and moustache.

Getting up Stewart opened the wardrobe and removed a tracksuit on a coat hanger along with a t-shirt wrapped in sealed plastic and a shoe box. He shook all the loose hair from his head and took off his worn t-shirt and jeans and put on the new t-shirt, tracksuit and trainers. He stood in front of the mirror and looked at himself, he was no longer looking at Worzul Gummage.  Stewie now looked the part.

Writing – The Tale of The Live Chameleons: Chapter 5

The Tale of The Live Chameleons

5.The Sage

This room, I’m sure I recognise it, remember it from a dream maybe? The dark and the smell, that smell, I remember that stink of incense smoke, hanging in the air like a cloud of sick and flowers. The figure sat in the corner. I know him I think. Am I dreaming? Something’s not right. What’s going on?

I don’t like this.

When was I born? Where am I? Who am I?

We live in something called reality. This is reality. Is this reality? Oh shit, I’ve got to get my head together, I am real, and this room is real. I remember. I’m feeling better now. God that was mad, I lost it for a second then, head went a bit west. Best close my eyes. Relax.


I’m rocking, in a cot, feels nice, just got to relax. Floating, cradled in the arms of who…Mother Nature? She’s telling me,

“Your home.”


Lying in a field, orange sky swirling above, grass warm and thick. Inside I’m glowing, heat flows through me. Everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s joined together.

“I’m home.”


I open my eyes.

This room. So familiar, I was just here. But then where have I just been? In a field? What’s going on? What does all this mean? I feel so strange; am I going crazy, or am I asleep. I hope I’m asleep. That man, in the corner, small guy, little beard and glasses, scruffy hair. I know him, I’m sure of it; I’ll ask him what’s going on.

“Whurp gaaaa” I dribble.

He just stares. He looks so strange.

“What’s happening?”

He smiles.

“Are you ok Nogsy man?

I think of an answer.

“Sort of”

“I told you it was strong didn’t I. Salvia Divinorum, it’d a type of sage, one of the strongest hallucinogens on the planet and it’s totally legal man, you can buy it down the road.”

“You take this often then Mac? Intense innit?”

“Heh heh, no man, only have it now and then, it’s quite a spiritual hit, not to be taken for fun.”

“So why did you give me a big pipe of it to smoke then?”

“Hey sorry man, but you need something to help clean up that black aura of yours, plus you said it was bollocks and that nothing legal could be that good”

“I was wrong.”

“I know man, I know.”

“I still feel off my head, how long does it last?”

“Twenty minutes or so, you’ll be cool man, just relax.”


It was easy for Mac to say just relax, he took the wildest types of drugs you could think of, so he was used to having reality well and truly warped, he called himself a psychonaught, dedicated to pushing the boundaries of human conciseness or something. But I had things to be doing tonight, I needed Mac to give me the tablets so I could meet Stewie and I’d chosen the wrong time to push the boundaries of my conciseness because at the moment I felt like I was nailed to the chair and my mind off visiting other dimensions when really I needed to be out making money.

“Nogsy, do you know what the I-Ching is?”

“Never heard of it mate, what is it, another mad drug of yours?”

“No, it’s an ancient Chinese oracle, you know like fortune telling, but it’s more than that, much more. You want me to do you a reading?”

“Er, look Mac, I gotta be going really mate, can’t we just leave it?”

I tried to stand up and felt like I was being pulled back into the seat by some giant magnet. The Salvia was still working its magic. It was strong stuff. I sighed and looked at Mac who was looking at me, eyes smiling.

“Ok mate, go on, looks like I won’t be going anywhere too soon.”

“You’ll be sound in no time, it’ll wear off, just let me go get the stuff”

He came back into the room with a cardboard shoebox. He put it down took off the lid and brought out three tattered paperback books, a jotting pad and a small wooden box with a yin yang symbol on. He opened the box and tipped out three Chinese coins into the palm of his hand.

“I need you to take these coins Nogs, and think of a question, you can tell me if you want or keep it to yourself, but just think of a question and when you are ready throw the coins on the floor. You’ll throw the coins six times and each time I’ll make a note of what you threw, at the end you’ll have a symbol called a hexagram and I’ll consult these books and tell you what your hexagram means. Does that make sense?”

“Sort of.”

Mac smiled and handed me the three coins, small and round with square holes in the middle. They looked ancient.

“Think of a question and throw the coins, that’s all man.”

I held the coins in my hand like dice and shook them. I thought of my question, what was the best way to deal with this Stewie kid, and could I make even more money off him somehow.

I threw the coins.

Mac looked down at them then drew something down on his jotter pad.

“Ok man, that’s seven, Yang”

He showed me the pad; he had drawn a horizontal line in pencil. I nodded.

I continued throwing the coins, each time Mac looked at them mumbled a number, drew a line then told me to throw again. I did that another five times then he told me to stop.

He finished drawing lines, wrote some numbers then he looked in one of his books, he handed me the pad while he flicked through one of the paperbacks.

“That’s twenty-four, Fu, The Returning, it means a turning point, timing must be cultivated, patience is needed, new energies will appear, be cautious as with anything new.”

I nodded.

“That line with a little cross through it, that’s a moving line, that represents change, the line reads –

“Quiet return, good fortune”


“And the other hexagram is nineteen Lin, Approach, it means advance with care, consider others more and warns that rash decisions are costly now, so be careful, don’t rush things and things should turn out fine for you.”

I nodded and considered the sagely wisdom of the oracle.

“Have you got those tablets then Mac? I need to go.”

Writing -The Tale of The Live Chameleons: Chapter 4

The Tale of The Live Chameleons


4. Short Stories


Malvin walked towards his flat his bag of goodies. His Rizla, his assorted sweets and crisps his Special Curry and Fried Rice. In a way he was happy that was until he opened up the main door and entered the dark and damp hallway. Fungus grew on the ceiling and no one knows what grows on that carpet, all sticky and wet. He remembered how much he hated this place. He made his way quickly to his flat. On opening the door he went into the kitchen and put his curry and rice onto a plate and walked and ate his way into the living room. He looked at his watch. Five past Five. If he wanted he could go out for an hour or so, down to Lacey’s for a pint, if he wanted. He sat down and ate his food.


After eating Malvin switched on his pc and sat down on the couch as began making a joint. He only smoked the best weeds and hashish. None of this cheap low grade rubbish for Malvin full off all sorts of rubbish plastic and stuff. It’d been on tv with the man from a university, he was telling Shaz, he forget his name, but he was from a university and it was on tv so that must count for something.

He joined the fine cigarette papers with a delicate quickness, licking, joining, tearing, licking, blowing then covering the cone shape he’d made with tobacco and finally he placed small buds of fresh organic Belladonna marijuana in a handheld grinder and ground the buds to powder sprinkling this onto the half made joint. Picking it up he rolled, flicked and like a magician turned the pile of tobacco, weed and paper into a large cone similar to a parsnip.

Malvin lit the end of the parsnipand inhaled and smiled, he was back at his, he had no where to go, nothing to do, but smoke and write. He went to the computer.

Opening a file called The Tale a word processing document opened. This was Malvin’s story.


The Tale of The Live Chameleon by Malvin L Chotes – (Part 1)

 Smashed and dashed, The Chameleon reflected on the vision of the vision in the hanging mirror on the barf-room wall.

It hung.

The night after the day after the night before and yet he still felt dead. Opposite, a most odd sight, an early cadaver mocked him. Pulled tongues at him no less. As he did samewise, a dry, frothy clapper flap hummed.


  Like the last strip of tripe hanging in a butcher’s window, it tasted as foul as it looked.


  Never again, he lied.

  Alive (in an approximate way) he shuffled to the lavatory. Stood waiting. A burst of burning, smelling pish spat out in a jet from his other, more private chameleon. The red hot relief a welcome distraction from the poisoned pain that continued and continued to permeate his frame. But soon it returned. As the stink of hurt crept back through every fibre of his matter so to did the heated shame and guilt of a half remembered nightmare. He peered down into mess of the toilet bowl, closed his eyes and wished; then prayed to wake. Opening them all he saw still was the shit and spew of his bog. Oh my God he thought, shaking inside and out. I’ve killed her.


Malvin read it through. Not bad he thought, got a lot more to write obviously, all the important bits, all the juicy bits. But it’s only the start. More to come. Much more. He looked at his watch, five thirty five. Can’t phone Sharon until after Coronation Street, whenever that finishes, might as well crack on with the story…


Writing -The Tale of The Live Chameleons: Chapter 3

The Tale of The Live Chameleons

3.To Score Four Hundred E’s


I was buzzing my tits off. Provided everything went to plan I was gonna be four hundred pounds up on today plus I’d tax a few of the tablets before I passed them onto this Stewie kid. I had butterflies in my stomach just thinking about getting wrecked tonight, I hadn’t had ecstasy for a while, mostly been snorting the speed that I’d been knocking out, obviously before I bashed it with glucose and paracetemol, I wouldn’t want to be putting that shit up my nose, so a bit of e would be nice for a change. I began planning the evening out so I could just chill later.


1.Phone Stewie

2.See Mac Get pills.

3.Tax about eight pills from bag.

4.Give Stewie pills.

5.Go Home

6.Phone Malvin, try to get some weed.

7.Phone Sharon, try to get some beaver.

8.Switch phone off.

9.Get fucked.


So that was the plan, pretty good plan too I thought. I’d pay Mac tomorrow or the day after or as late as possible. The longer I had that money the more time I could reinvest it in more gear. Could even get some coke, I’d defo be making more selling that than I would knocking out amphetamine or pills. Happy days. It was time to phone Stewie.

Writing – The Tale of The Live Chameleons: Chapter 2

                             The Tale of The Live Chameleons


2.Malvin, The Doctor and God.


“And do you suffer any anxiety at anytime?” the Doctor asked him.


Malvin continued to stare at the cuffs of his sleeves, his hands together, upturned and in fists. He liked the symmetry, although the scar on his right wrist did spoil it somewhat, made it messy he thought. He pulled the cuffs over his wrist, covering the scar. Making the cuffs line up as neatly as he possibly could he became mesmerized by the stitching that ran around the base of the them, he could probably count all those little stitches if he concentrated hard enough. He was almost a third of the way across the first cuff when…

“Excuse me, Malvin, do you suffer from anxiety at anytime?”

Malvin looked up, the Doctor had a friendly face, a big friendly face, was he from India or Pakistan, probably India? Maybe not though he thought. His shirt had big patches of sweat around each one of his armpits, he was sweating quite a lot actually, like he was nervous, or hot, the room was cool enough though so Malvin concluded he must be nervous.

“Excuse me Dr, do you suffer from anxiety at anytime?” he asked.

Writing something down quickly on his notepad the Doctor, looking intrigued, replied,

“Why do you ask me if I suffer from anxiety Malvin?”

The Doctors’ big brown friendly face looked on eagerly waiting for him to say something; tiny beads of sweat ran down it and sometimes one would drip onto his desk, Malvin noticed the bigger sweat beads seemed to race faster down his face than the smaller ones, he wondered if that was something to do with physics, like when Galileo dropped the melon and the cannonball from that tower in Italy, but they both landed together that time, so that couldn’t be it. Or maybe, he thought, the Doctors’ face was impervious to physics. He laughed out loud.

“Malvin, is everything ok?”the Doctor asked, again scribbling away in his notepad.

“Everything’s cool doc”, Malvin said grinning, “cool as melons.”

“Melons?” the Doctor said with raised eyebrows, “is there any particular reason you said that then Malvin? Cool as melons?”

“I like melons. Do you like melons Doctor?”

“Yes Malvin I like melons, I like all sorts of fruit, tell me Malvin,” the Doctor said thoughtfully, ”as a child where you –“

“Do you like bananas Doc?” Malvin interjected.

“Erm, can we just try and stay on track here please Malvin, yes I do like bananas, now like I was saying, as a child –“

“Which do you prefer best Doctor, bananas or melons?”

The Doctor took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his brow, he really didn’t like the way this was going at all. Not one bit.

“Yes!” Malvin suddenly blurted out.

“Yes what Malvin?”

“Yes I do suffer from anxiety sometimes.”

“Oh right, ok Malvin. So when do you find that you are at your most anxious?” the Doctor asked smiling, happy that the whole fruit thing was out the way.

“Well mostly when I hear the voice, in my head” Malvin looked solemnly at the Doctor.

“Voice, what does this voice say Malvin?” the doctor asked, trying to look as equally solemnly back at Malvin.

“Different stuff, sometimes it’ll say Malvin shut up or I’ll just hear him groaning or once there was this massive banging noise that went on for ages”

“So the voice you hear is a male voice then is it Malvin? Do you know whose voice it is?”

Malvin nodded, “I think it might be God.”

The Doctor started writing enthusiastically into his notepad, the way this was going he’d need a new pen soon, did he have a new pen…what if this pen ran out and he couldn’t take any more notes? He started checking in the top drawer of his desk for a spare pen.

“Yes, yes God you say Malvin, interesting. Do go on” the Doctor said with obvious disinterest as he continued searching for a back up pen.

“Well, it may be God, I have done quite a few things that might’ve annoyed him, y’know over the years.” Malvin said, leaning back in his chair.

The Doctor, who still hadn’t found a pen to replace the one he was using (in the likelihood that his current pen should run out), was starting to become noticeably flustered, he was frantically rummaging through the drawer and it looked like the sweat equivalent of a marathon was taking place on his face.

“Doctor, are you alright?” Malvin asked.

“Yes, it’s just I can’t find my damn pen, I’m sorry Malvin, where were we?”

“I was telling you about God. You’ve got your pen there. In your hand.”

“God, of course yes, so what kind of things does he say?” asked the Doctor.

“We’ve done that bit, didn’t you write it down?”

“Yes, yes, sorry Malvin, I just got distracted for a moment, God tells you to shut up and bangs and groans. How does this make you feel?”

“A bit annoyed, but he’s God, so I suppose he can pretty much do what he wants really.”

“Mmmm, so why do you think he chooses to speak to you specifically Malvin?”

“Dunno, he speaks to other people though doesn’t he? Like the pope and vicars.”

“Ok Malvin, but if God does speak to the pope I don’t think he spends his time telling him to shut up or grunting at him.”

“He doesn’t grunt, he groans. And I don’t think it’s for you to decide what God does or doesn’t say to the pope. And anyhow, there’s a chance the voice could be my neighbours voice, Jim. I only ever really hear the voice in my flat and Jim tends to shout and bang round and groan a lot, and you never told me if you preferred melons to bananas and is your pen broke yet?”

The Doctor rubbed his temples, bowed his head silently and started to look like he was in either deep concentration or deep prayer when really he was in deep panic and deep prayer. Pretty much as soon as met Malvin he began dreading these appointments with him. In all his years he had never met anyone like Malvin that had tested his patience as much as he had, and he prayed he would never meet him again after this whole ordeal was finished. He was set for another three weeks then their sessions would be over and he would be free. Over the past month he’d lost weight and couldn’t eat properly because of Malvin. He’d also began sweating more than usual during the days leading up to and after their sessions. He was becoming a wreck. But just three more weeks to go, that’s all. Three’s the magic number. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about spare pens, or fruit, or sweating or what god talks to the pope about. But there’s still three weeks, that’s twenty-one days, that’s five hundred and four hours, that’s thirty thousand two hundred and forty seconds, oh please someone, a whole three weeks left.

As he tried to regain his composure, the Doctor stared at the cuffs off his sleeves then straightened them, tapped the tip of his pen on his notepad and wrote just three words.



Writing – The Tale of The Live Chameleons: Chapter 1

The Tale of The Live Chameleons


1.Waiting for Blobbo



I’d been sitting there waiting on that bench for about fifteen minutes for that fat knob head to show up.  Meet me at six I told him; don’t be leaving waiting like you always fucking do I told him. If he wasn’t such a good customer I’d well fuck him off but the lad buys like eight or nine bags a week, all top whack, no discount, always cash. Muppet.

I ring his mobile.

“Alrite Barry lad. Where the fuck are you ?”

“Shit, sorry Nogs, I’ll be there in five, It’s just –

I hang up.

Sitting looking out over the river waiting for Big Barry to show, every now and then a ship would pass by, pushing through the sewage and shit that is the Mersey. I looked down onto the beach and could see some old people walking with their mangy dog and some daft fella who looked like he was older than me, playing with his stupid fuckin’ kite. The lighthouse just sitting there doing jack shit ‘cos it doesn’t even work and the old fort had some big mad sign on it telling us all to say no to a supermarket being built or something. I hate this fucking town, there’s nothing new and there’s nothing bright about it. It was better years ago. When we where kids we’d mess round down there on that beach. Killing crabs and chucking rubber jonnies at each other. I remember once, when it was high tide and all the older lads were there diving off of the sea wall. It was about a hundred foot high. Well it was when I was a kid anyway. Most likely about twenty feet or something nowadays, anyway, they were there, all diving in, head first. I was well impressed by that as a kid. Mind you, if I saw anyone jumping in there now I’d advise the soft twats to get to Arrowe Park Hospital sharpish and get themselves tested for everything they could be tested for, but when you’re young you buzz off all sorts of mad shit like that.

A bit further down the prom I could see Barry bouncing towards me, sweating racing down his face and looking like some big fat red fire engine. Five minutes my arse, that was a least quarter of an hour. Probably takes him five minutes to put on one of his socks.


“You took you’re fuckin’ time didn’t you Bazza lad?”

“Nogs, sorry mate. I’ve been sorting some bizzo out, for you.”

“What d’ya mean sorting business out for me ? What business ?”

“This lad, he wants tablets, lots of”

“Yeah ? How many ?”

“Two hundred”

“mmmm, be fours each, all the way”

“Ok, I’ll bell him now, I won’t be a sec”

“Hang on, take these, there’s nine bags there, that’s ninety. Alright?”

“Cheers mate, e’ are, there’s a ton there”

“Cool, I’ll sort ya tenner out after you phoned that lad ‘bout the pills”



He waddled off over by the railings and starting prodding away at his mobile. If this lad he’s phoning is as daft as Barry then he should pay four quid a tablet, heh heh, sorted. I checked through the money he just gave me, all there, a hundred quid. I’ll tell him I haven’t got any change on me, he’s scatty as fuck and will most likely forget anyway. Like I said, he’s a good customer. He waddled back over.


“Nogs, he said cool, he’ll pay fours all the way up on two hundred”

“Sound, by the way, who the fuck is he ? Do I know him ?”

“He says he knows you, from when he used to go The Drome back in the day, bought tablets or whiz off you or something, he’s safe. Gets good acid. Name’s Stewie ”

“Oh right, name rings a bell, so what’s the situation then, you gonna give me his number or we meeting him?”

“I’ll text you his number and you can sort it all out with him”

“Ok, do it now lad before you forget. You know what you’re like”

“Ok, Nogs, I’m on it”


More mobile prodding by Baz then my phone beeped. I checked it.

“Alright, cheers Baz, look I gotta shoot now, sort this –“

I looked at the text message again,

“- this Stewie lad out, bell us if you want any more of that”

I thumbed my nose and sniffed.

“Ok, cheers Nogs mate, laters”


I walked away smiling.

First off I had to make sure I could actually score that many tablets, but that didn’t turn out to be too much of a problem, I made one phone call to Mac and it was sorted. He told me I could get them laid on for two quid each until I’d sold them, so I wouldn’t even have to front any cash and I’d be making four hundred quid pure profit just for carrying a bag of E from A to B. So it looked like it was worth sitting around on that bench getting a numb arse waiting for Fat Barry to arrive. Oh yeah, and I got to keep his tenner change.





Writing – Higgetypiggetypong (scene from script)

Higgetypiggetypong – Script (scene 01)




Heavy curtains are drawn, and the sound of early morning traffic can be heard through the open window. Beer bottles and pizzas boxes are strewn on the floor. From a dark corner of the room a strange moaning sound can be heard from LOUIS as he begins to wake up.



Eurgh! my head.

LOUIS moves gets up to move from his resting place in the corner of the room but falls over as soon as he moves.


Eurgh! my back.

As LOUIS falls he moves into the light and it becomes apparent that he is a GIANT FROG. Lying on his back LOUIS opens his eyes.



As LOUIS looks down at his body he is surprised to realise he has turned into a giant frog.


Argh! What the? How the? I’m a f…I feel sick.

LOUIS passes out. Flashback sequence to the night before.


INT.living room – evening

Loud music is coming from the stereo and LOUIS and his friend FRANK are drunk. they are singing/shouting and dancing about the room.


Hey Lou, this music is cool! Were did you get it from?


The Internet! I downloaded it!


Cool!….what’s downloaded it?


Er, it’s downloading stuff, off the internet…you know?


Yeah course I know! The internets, downloaded it. Course I know!

LOUIS moves over to the stereo and turns the volume down.


You don’t know do you Frank?


Not really no…it’s computers or something right?


Yeah Frank, it’s computers, come on mate I’ll show you the internet.



LOUIS and FRANK walk over to the computer and LOUIS switches it on. FRANK looks on in amazement.


So the internets are in there then? That box thingy?


No, you connect to an ISP and…

FRANK has a very puzzled look on his face.


er yeah, the internets are in the box thing.

The computer screen comes on and as LOUIS starts to log onto the internet FRANK’S eyes light up. It’s obvious that he’s never even seen the internet or even used a computer.


Wow. Google, what’s that then?


You type in what you are looking for and it finds it for you.


Eh? it finds it? cool. Type sexy ladies.


Oh I don’t know Frank mate, probably not many sexy ladies on the internet.


Isn’t there? Huh, well let’s look for something else.



Here you are mate, look.

LOUIS types ‘sexy ladies’ and clicks the mouse. FRANK looks at the computer screen and his eyes nearly pop out of his head.


Oh my days! Give me a go!


OK mate, look just type what you want then press that big key there, ok?


Cool, let me at it.

FRANK stands in front of computer with his hands waving round the keyboard, he has never typed before and he is quite drunk so it proves quite difficult for him to coordinate his hands as he begins to type and hits enter with a flourish.


What’s that? Higgetypiggetypong? What were you trying to type?


Hot nipples. Shall I try again?


Hang on! There’s a website called Higgetypiggetypong.com. I got to see this!



LOUIS is lying on the floor, he opens his eyes and looks at his arms.


Oh my god, I’m a bloody frog. I’ve got to get help – and I’ve got to get to work. Frank!

At that moment a disheveled and hung over FRANK walks into the bedroom rubbing his head. He sees LOUIS and faints.


Oh great.

Writing – Ode to a Pessimist

Ode to a pessimist


Each morning when I wake
before I lift a lid
I know one thing for certain
that this day will be shit


As I munch my soggy cornflakes
and gulp my tepid tea
the most important meal of the day
feels like the last supper to me


Rushing through the traffic
to get to hell on earth
one day they’ll build us robots
so we don’t have to work (yeah right!)


Dealing with the public
is sure to make me itch
and working with the general stupid
will never make me rich


These monkeys I call colleagues
just make my claret steam
I find it easier to close my eyes
fall asleep at my desk and dream


But fuck me if my dreams aren’t shite
nightmares recur each day
I dream I’m awake and I’m in work
even my fantasies are mundane


At least it’s nearly 5 o’clock
and I can get off home
get away from all these sad fuckos
and be miserable alone.