Note to Self

Dear You,


What happened there? Was it the same that happened here? Did you go away? Taken leave of your senses? Have you been on holiday? I have. Months ago, I packed my single shabby suitcase and blew. I shrugged off this incessant whirl of unemployed Utopia and joined the rat race. Have you ever taken a holiday with the rats? You should. It would suit your temperament down to the last gasp. No foreign travel required. Nothing to declare. No passport needed.

The rats and I, we scurried up through the drains and left our droppings in the four corners of your decaying attic space, in the wood and worn sheets that now comprise your fleeting history in dust. I will confess that such activities weren’t entirely pleasant, but it was a relief to be a creature of such disgusting, depraved habit: alive to my true nature, alive to the filth and degradation we could only ever allow ourselves to sink into after dark, long after midnight.

Listen hard. That is the sound of my theeth nashing as you sleep.