A torn curtain in a bleached puce, frames the gateway to the rays of the world in my minuscule little closet room. The walls once scattered with countless hours of memories, are bare, scarred only with the stains of the adhesive holding those moments once upon a time. The shelf once filled with the words of four and twenty clever word-smiths, now an empty shell for someone else’s collected works. My life once more packed tightly into rectangular cases, to be shipped and stored around the country, awaiting my return after the sun goes down on our English summer. My little snippets of life are locked into a darkened room while I run away from reality for three tiring moon cycles, to work tirelessly for the currency of our lives. The new years alcohol and texts will vanquish that dollar in no less than 10 minutes. And that is the cycle of my sad and tired life. My body drags itself through the alcohol, sex and utterly disgraceful nourishment nine months of the year and the work and work and work and loneliness the other 3 months. However much I detest this repetitive cycle, as my final year looms, these horrendous and odious tasks become more meaningful and potent in my ever spiralling life plan. Making these cherished embraces and encounters last is all that fills my strained brain. My hollow and cold room in my home waits for me to wait out my final year, for that to then fly by and for the tedious decisions of life to place themselves on my lap and force me to decide what path I am to stumble and fall upon. But shit happens. Suck it up little one and stumble on.