This is like an online notebook, this stuff is not finished or often even started properly.

K. Hole.

K hole.

 

I can’t remember if I’m in Birmingham or London. If I’m standing up conscious or slipping on the heavy steps of my old stone house.  My face is cold to the floor, my eyes baked and curdled in the hard light of the kitchen.  I must be lying down, but I can’t orientate myself. I panic momentarily feeling that I am pushed tight against an unimaginably large block of concrete.  This feeling passes and the sickness returns dragging me deep into the whirling pits.

I’m exceptionally aware of the liquids throbbing around my body and I become intensely scared that my veins may burst open at any moment and blood and valuable white cells may be ejected over the pristine rotating lino. I ghost sense a million small mouths gnawing there way from inside me teething on my flesh. Cannibalistic larvae ready to escape to puke out my insides, deflating me. Seeping like a popped blister slicking the suburban kitchen (yet to be paid for) in salty liquid, my skin will be baggy and my face misshapen as my skeleton rolls out and lies naked in the gore.

The panic is causing my teeth to chatter and my eyes to spin, all I can muster is sweat and what feels like tears dripping down my cheeks.  But even this scares me, what if I am to drown in my own sweat? Stuck to the ground and sobbing out of irises stretched large to fill my desperate eyes. 

Where are my friends? Where are my lovers, parents and relatives?

Why am I stiff and horizontal? Where has my intuitive command of my own self gone?

Years of conditioning and trained reactions muscle memory has been splurged on this smudged head rush. One nosespike and I’m all up and over. Lethargically flailing in a contorted pose of static.

I can see an old companion making out of focus movements and projecting smoke across the air above me. My fag urge clicks my fingers and lungs into unity and the habitual memory guides me back into reality one puff at a time, the straight drags me back into the now, and as my vision returns I focus on the cracked mirror at the centre of this party the ugly truth that given two minutes makes me accept another nosepike as it’s offered. Regretamine.  

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