Words are a waste of times.

All towns have their fool,and I am this town's fool. Stripped bare and tired, tied to the cross and left there slow to hang. I am now completely and utterly naked, empty of style, loss of virtues, none of which ever existed in the first place. The first place. The first place I came to when I moved to this most exasperating of cities - this cold sweat in the night of civilisation - when I moved here I wandered along the riverbanks and swaying gently, taking my place among the concrete and the stone and the angel dust scattered calmly along the pavements, there I thought I was a new man. A new and creative spurt in the cracks - not weed, but blooming flower, creeping up between the dirt and the mud.

All this is vulgar now, and tepid. The sun ejaculates; lukewarm splashes of light spray my face and my shoulders - time heals no wounds. Wounds fester, infection spreads, caused by tired bones shuffling along the streets - reading confessionals on the spreadsheets and murdering passers by with intense grinning. There is no stone left unturned in my desire to devour the wicked and the cunts. All locked inside, stock still, riding high on ego and cucumber sandwiches. There, I said it. Fucking cucumber sandwiches. All my life, cucumber sandwiches. I hate them.

I am a fucking lunatic, lost and found - raping the flowers with a glance. It doesn't help to realise what a loony bugger I am - hitting the faces of the passers by, my fists bloody and crimson, locked in perpetual combat with my own vulgarity, my face now, pummeled by my own fists; oh how I want to! How I would writhe under the beating I would give myself! I woulds squirm and speak nightmares, terrible to stop - and terrible to continue, it is all so utterly unbearable what I have become. A burden on myself, a calm cloud in the coffee of my own stark naked youth.

If you love someone (and I don't think you do) then why don't you simply let yourself fall headlong into the dark, and cry about it now, before it has even begun? Why not say now: "It was never going to work out, I saw it in his eyes - he's a vulgarian. I can see it in the words that cascade out of his mouth, out of his pen and onto the page, he hammers the keys with such ferocity that his fingers will soon curl round and vanish into his mouth, and he shall vomit the words onto the page, and they will spatter and we shall know, once and for all, that he was a nasty piece of work." Why not stop yourself from ever fucking your life away with me, in my hole, in my place of revelry. It's me in that dark. Can't you see it? Can't you hear the clowns rolling out of the car, village idiot, teeming with ruddy life and strung up on the gibbet, awaiting the roar?

It was all there, darling. The rope was waiting in the wings, waiting for the curtain. It was all a stage, darling. They brought you here with their singing, and now you live alone; on the floor. And god forbid you should eat something. Shovel something into your mouth, darling. Cram the words back in. Live on the words.