The book of poetry fell down, off the shelf, and he couldn't quite bring himself to lift it and place it back on there. Instead he felt a deep-seated revulsion for the human race and its myriad forms of cultural artistic expression. Not to mention non-artistic and other forms of expression, whatever the hell they might be. To hell with all of it.
He thought about earlier. Getting drunk. Falling asleep at 9pm, on a friend's couch. Coming home with a headache, preparing a cheese sandwich. Went to sit down on the comfortable chair, his favourite chair. A brown thing. The chair was covered in assorted bric-a-brac, rendering it uninhabitable. Figures. He stood on the cool tiled kitchen flair, munching away. Head splitting. Fuck it. Bedtime. 4am and he was workin' the morn at noon! And again the next day. Some fuckin' weekend! He'd done fuck all but get pissed. Well, semi-pissed. Not even a fully-fledged drunk. Well fuck that, he was too old for that now. He was too sensible for that shite.
And he recalled the words of his xenophobic pal, discussing how he was being investigated by the government for tax evasion. "Ah'll land up in the gaol. Am no a paki and am no Polish. Am white, I'll get done for it. Broxburn, born and bred for 25 year. Am no a nigger and am no a Pole. Cuz am white ah'll get done."