Crawlspace

I won't pretend that living in this crawlspace doesn't have its disadvantages, but at the very least I'm insulated. Sometimes something seeps through, something warm, or something cold. At this point my skin is very sensitive. Hell, it was always sensitive, that's partly the reason I'm down here to begin with. I remember the sky, clouds. Parks, trees. I miss those things sometimes, aye. Cold wine and my favourite music. Aye, sometimes I feel tempted to return. I could live on a remote island or alone on a research station in Alaska. But could I, realistically? At times like this present moment, notions such as these strike me as being utterly preposterous. My crawlspace has warm and cold and a few different colours. The less things you have the more you appreciate what you've got.

A layer of sediment appeared, that's new! Oh well then. Imagine me wide-eyed. Grime on my face. A rueful grin. Should I add oregano to my Bloody Mary? These are the queries that one needs to address, quite swiftly. If you're quite ready to advise.

Hostage Situation

Act drunk – take the matches – dad knows – the lassies regarded him oddly and walked away – grinning, clearing his throat – odd looking in his oversized leather jacket and blue cap – he didn't want that we go to his house – the night was so fucking dark there was a purity to it – an unusual friendship... that's an understatement, I was a fucking hostage.

Gesticulating wildly in a bid to explain.

Later he was morose – gaunt – withdrawn.

An overcast day – laughing at drivers – this was during the early days of the hostage situation.