Southeast London

…and if distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder? Maybe I am just imagining things again, which you know is deadly for one’s perception of reality.

 

I’ll be sleeping on a mattress cover tonight with no blanket with my head resting on a discolored pillow formerly soaked with sweat reminiscent of my worst nightmares. I’ve given the last pillowcase and blanket away, even my pajamas, so I’ll be sleeping in my clothes and leather jacket.

Has this room been any emptier? I don’t really know, I feel no difference.

Can’t remember if I was crying in my sleep; I don’t think I did, must’ve been sweat or saliva. I feel nothing, yet.

 

I can’t stop listening to the West of Memphis soundtrack, as though still looking for answers or secrets to be unveiled and ensuring myself that everything that’s happened was really not my fault, but how it was meant to be and that I did fuck up by not being entirely myself. I don’t know what kind of “good” they see in me. In the end it has driven me towards sadness only.

 

I believe that shortsighted people are more appreciative with what they have. They see good right in front of them.

 

New Cross, Wapping, Greenwich and Southbank – you have half of my heart, not more.

 

Actually,

I did not fuck up one bit.

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