Today I wrote

Today I wrote something new and I sent it to Popshot.

It's called 'Bryan Adams and the ritual of the curtains'

I want them to fall in love with it.
If they don't I'll give it to you.

You must keep it safe, it has my heart inside.

Sheridan and the things that happened then

'You make me feel like a sghetti hoop prostitute.'
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Into the sea, I release my pain

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Today, I start again

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Changes at home

"You never made it clear that this meant something." He said.

"You never made it clear that it didn't." She said.

I could have done something else, anything else

"I saw you sitting on the side of the road today." I said.
"You did?" You said.
"You looked broken." I said.
"I felt like I couldn't try anymore." You said.
"Perhaps if I'd been braver I would have stopped." I said.
"Perhaps if you were a lot of things this would have been different." You said.

There didn't seem to be anything else to say so I sat at the table and played with the zip on my jacket.

You looked out the window.
I knew you were somewhere else but I didn't ask where.

I wish I had now.

Things can change. I'm almost sure of that.

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This is me

New, age, technical, from object to new object. Travelling. This is then.
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Some place else, anywhere else.

He's on the tube now.
He sits there, everyday in the third carriage, sweater on, thermos of vegetable soup tucked between his legs.
The journey is relatively quick if not a little inane, repetitive, arduous and hot.
Today he took a book, thought it would break up the mundane, the normal.
He's on the tube now.
The pages are open, the words have rendered him paralysed, the tips of his fingers completely numb, he feels his face flush. The carriage is smaller somehow.
He's on the tube now.
Yes, he's on the tube now but the words have taken him some place else, some place sad or nostalgic or dangerous or ridiculously happy. He doesn't know anymore, the feelings are confused or forgotten. It's not how he got here that's important. It's how not to cry in front of these strangers in their suits and their shoes, holding double shot espressos and iPhones, judgements on the tips of their eyes.
His eyes have blurred, the words shift on the page, impossible now to make sense of the sentences.
He's on the tube now.
But he knows that once he gets off a tiny part of him will be left here in this moment, doomed to repeat it all, because the words.
The words.
The words.
They own him now and its all he can do not to turn into liquid and evaporate into the pages.

This book will forever be a part of him.

He's on the tube now.
But all he wants is to survive it.

The things I've done today are less important than other things are sometimes