Unable to sleep he attempted to hallucinate the smell of her pussy, that sweet acrid stench. He was pressing his head against the pillows and yearning for a girl he had met in the past.
Sleep was unlikely to be forthcoming; he had taken a nap at the unconventional time of 9pm for a couple of stupid broken lazy hours, half dozing blinded by the light and haunted by the awareness that he hadn't let the bath water away.
He was thinking of the girl that he had met in the past, the past ie. the previous weekend.
Some women are strange. They seem interested and then they suddenly change their minds or else they are only pretending or playing games or some such cruel whimsy. And he had thought that this was the case with this girl maybe. But she had maintained a correspondence with him and things looked promising apart from the fact that she fucking had a boyfriend fuck sake why is nothing is this damn fucking life ever straightforward?
He felt such immense pity for himself. Not really. Actually, he felt okay, pretty detached really, and this detachment felt okay. Especially in comparison with the bouts of anxiety and existential dread he had endured that summer. Detachment felt much better. And hell, he even had moments where he felt something, some sort of vague joy or optimism or enthusiasm. He wisnae too normal he supposed. Something of a navel gazer as this piece of writing likely indicates.
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