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There’s this thing, about shoe gaze, dream culture. Something I have always wanted to tap right into. Who wouldn’t? The brilliance of the stars, ethereal music taking you to non-stereotypical-stereotypical places that you have never been to before. So I’ll scrub my skin, firstly. Whiten it, contrast it. Lighten the eyes so that the mud-brown irises look delicate hazel and shimmer in the spotlights. I will smile with bleached teeth; tattoo myself with a swallow, or a pigeon (have you not noticed the beautiful oil rainbow of colour on their feathers?) maybe, behind my ear. Because, of course, I want to be free. Wear pastels and talk of the splash of pallid yellow colour that the sunlight makes upon the time of dusk. I’m not even being ironic. I want this shit! And now I’m walking down the long flight of stairs in my block of flats. It’s funny, because I enjoy being poor. Who wouldn’t? It gives me something to complain about. Plus, what a view! The double glazed windows that don the stairwell show the eminent skyscrapers and flashing lights of the city at their best. And reflected in them is me. Originality is dead, I muse, pausing – but not for too long, the stench of putrid toilets fills my nostrils. I’ve seen myself though – all big fringe and rolled up jeans. I’m almost there. But my smile is not. Just can’t seem to be able to change my crooked, yellow teeth. Photoshop is not working! But they’ll all be on drugs anyway. I’m outside now. The dusk has become more like how it is supposed to be, as in dark. We like the dark, our lot. Even though it hides many things that we strive so hard to create – burgundy’s and pastels won’t show – it also is where the dreams are created. And the drugs are taken. Not mountains of white powder crushed between the capitalist societies hands (credit cards and banknotes, no?), oh no. Keep it clean, keep it green. And brown, grey, black maybe. Nearly there, I’ve come to join. I won’t be smiling tonight, but it’s okay. They will simply think that it is my thing. I’ll dissolve and watch (but don’t let them catch me). I should not be watching anyone but the mirror and the mirrors secrets. Like in my block of flats. And maybe tonight, I’ll head to the top, and jump off in a ball of fire and flames. And gravity will not affect me, and neither will any parents breaking up, y’know? I’ll head up not down. Didn’t think I was a Christian did you? I’m holding a bottle of whisky now. As I said, gravity won’t affect me like it affects the bottle, which has slipped out of my perspiring hands, and crashed brown diamond liquor all over the floor.


A sort of truth in prose.

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