eLrLQ4Kt

1 
2To build
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4Often, I think; 
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6I have never and probably never will, gone on a pilgrimage. 
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8I’ve found my own unique outlook, everyone has; but the spirituality I've found is of course, special, special because it’s a spirituality I have found.
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10I would not say I believe in the Judeo-Abrahamic God, of the protestant denomination because I on the whole am not very religious. Not religious at all actually. The little faith I have probably makes me one percent or so religious if such a scale existed. One percent (or less) faithful. 
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12A scale does exist I suppose, but only in the degrees of devotion that are readily apparent in the form of what one wishes to wear. The problem with this however, is that a woman wearing a crucifix or a woman in a burka doesn’t really mean much when you take the time to dissect the overall image before you.
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14Ponder this. 
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16A blonde woman with a crucifix. Pigtails for variety. A smattering of freckles on the lower chin. Semen, plastered on the rest of it. Something tells me this woman doesn’t hold nearly as much faith as I do. Could she? Does she? Could she have faith in God to rescue her from her ”immoral, sinful activities”? 
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18A grotesque thought, I apologise.
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20I’d like to ask you to conjure up another image. One, possibly, as equally grotesque. 
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22A muslim woman in a burka. A true devotee to Islam. Five horrid kids reeking of the same musk she’s drenched in, swarming at her heels, both of her hands on the black handle of her pushchair, the cheap rubber coated plastic wheels catching on the pavement. 
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24A believer? A victim? Is she really faithful or has she been coerced? Did she have any other option? Does she lament her lifestyle and abundance of faith when she sees beautiful women in beautiful gowns traverse the perilous terrain of the catwalk? Is her faith stronger than her desires? 
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26Is violence? 
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28Honestly, I don’t really care anymore. I think the correct term for the way I feel towards the other occupants of the land I live on would be acquiescence. I have accepted with regret but a lack of protest that people and their degrees of faith, faith in whatever are near meaningless to me.
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30Like I said earlier, I have my own special secret brand of spirituality that no one else has. 
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32I’m special. 
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34I don’t need to go to India. To find a commune. To live with the unwashed bourgeois and an old “guru” who probably engages in acts of the unfaithful, to phrase it gently. 
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36My brand of spirituality is as follows. It’s somewhat Hegelian in a sense. I find my own sense of the spirit in aesthetics, in readily apparent design choices. 
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38I see roads flanked with trees with signage posted in perfect symmetry and gaze in awe at the geometry.  Street lights that orbit the cars as they stand, static, their light following the gravity of reflection. The use of purposeful perspective kept in mind in the construction of churches, the way all the crucifixes line up when your line of sight is correct. 
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40This is why I became an architect.
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42There is nothing but the aesthetic, the aesthetic of design.
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44To Kierkegaard, faith was aesthetic. To be aesthetic was to be part of the immediate, the obvious, a concept first brought up by Hegel, which that nut Kierkagaard “expounded” upon in his dialectic, fear and trembling. 
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46Misery is aesthetic. Joy is aesthetic. Everything is aesthetic if you’re intelligent enough to observe immediacy. The details are there, it’s just a matter of paying attention. How is it possible for one to not pay attention to something immediately obvious?
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48Dunning-Kruger were of the opinion that the most intelligent people are the ones who are of the belief that they are unintelligent and vice versa. This strange phenomenon and the principle behind it must apply to the ability to observe. I wonder then, is my ability to observe all these immediate concepts the reason why I don’t feel anything for them anymore? 
49
50Xxxxx
51
52
53Chapter 1
54
55In another life, the life of my teens, I worked on a food truck. While serving a young lady (by wrapping her burrito, we sold mexican food that was overpriced but good. Actually fresh and made with real ingredients unlike the others who just sold burgers of dubious quality) I engaged her in small talk as was a natural habit of mine at the time. I have since lost this habit as the aforementioned acquiescence was borne from my steady decrease in patience for humanity. As the patience left, the choice I had was to agress or acquiesce, and so I chose the latter for the sake of jail not being a place I particularly wanted to visit. 
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57I was currently stationed in a field. Said field was hosting the tolpuddle martyrs festival. Unsurprisingly the festival was held to celebrate the brave sacrifice of the tolpuddle martyrs, five or however many brave young socialists who demand unions and were shipped off to Australia when it was still a penal colony. 
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59I suspect they are not vengeful spirits as unions are now commonplace and their descendants are able to live in a veritable paradise. Australia is commonly touted as one of the happiest countries in the world according to those intelligent people who can measure it and who we blindly believe in. Sunshine, pretty women, a close proximity to the beach etc etc. England doesn’t meet any of the happiness criteria unfortunately. Unfortunate for me. Fortunate for them. 
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61Maybe God is real. Maybe their reward for their sacrifice was their lineage now resting in the modern day garden of Eden. Until of course, the proverbial apple of knowledge was eaten and globalization took to the stage. Eden is now a name for a place that can never exist again. A place I don’t feel any nostalgia for, because I never had the chance to step foot on it’s prime soil. Ash coats my soles now. 
62
63I digress.
64
65The young lady was young indeed, probably around eighteen. She had fair hair with light blue eyes nestled under thick eyebrows that attempted in vain to match the hair above. What made me most curious was her lack of makeup. I assumed she had just showered or something but even so, most women would apply lipstick or eyeliner or whatnot in the shower even if said shower was a cubicle in a field. 
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67It turned out she was a lutheran who had travelled here by walking from Brighton (which was very far away) to pay pilgrimage to the tolpuddle martyrs. Cold church floors had become her temporary resting place day after day with inescapable rain her only companion outside of her fellow Lutherans singing and holding hands in rapture. 
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69While I was immediately impressed by her tenacity and dedication, it did however feel as if she was bragging. Is it worthy of bragging about? I’d say so. I don’t think being proud of enduring a torturous act is indicative of a moral character that one would have if committing such acts was purely an act of egoism, of narcissism. Still, it made me think. What really made me think was when I, without thinking asked her when we began the conversation, (after she had told me she walked here) asked her if she had done it as an act of adventure with her boyfriend. She gave me a look that I still can’t decipher. Did she assume I was chatting her up? Did she think it was amazing that I thought she could be in a relationship? Did she think I was daft for asking it?
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71I don’t know. I think and tell myself I don’t care but it’s stuck with me. Why?
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73Xxxxx
74
75
76Chapter 2
77
78Those days are long gone but I miss them sometimes. Not the actual act of labour. The labour was rough, the customers were worse, spending time in the outdoors getting burnt or wet and grimey and muddy, these are things I do not miss. 
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80I miss the days when I wasn’t stuck looking at the back of this disgusting woman’s head, day after day. I tell myself it’s not possible but it has to be, I can smell her bleached hair through the glass. It stinks. My nostrils are constantly burning. 
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82I draw my plans and for a time i’m alright. I do the math. I draw what i’m commissioned to create. For a time I am finally free from the odour that reeks from the hay upon her head. I make things, beautiful things from the intangible recesses of mind with my spirituality as fuel and I am free, free from PEROXIDE for a time, for a time for a time. 
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84Then she brings me coffee and the smell increases tenfold. I say thank you. She leaves. I leave the coffee. The smell of it blends with the PEROXIDE. Twelve minutes later it is cold. I drink it in one. 
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86Twelve minutes spent debating the question, is acquiescence is better than aggression? 
87
88Xxxxx
89
90Chapter 3 
91
92I try to be morally and logically consistent. 
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94It’s all one can do. 
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96It is for this reason that I am a vegetarian.
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98I’m not a militant one. 
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100I don’t begrudge meat eaters. 
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102I do care for animals, generally, and the repugnant state of the meat industry is a horror that i’m fully aware of, but it is a horror that does not really spark any emotion from me. 
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104To put it simply, I am axiomatically opposed to harm, both causing and being afflicted by it. Therefore, I do not eat meat because to do so would be to cause harm for pleasure, which is not justifiable by my moral axioms. 
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106This should not be an inflammatory thing to state. 
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108A lot of men have an issue with this however,as to not eat meat, to not indulge in brutality, to not cause harm for pleasure is seen as feminine. Such a perspective is understandable, to an extent, as one has to realise that to not eat meat in the formative stage of our evolution would have been to die.
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110However we are no longer cavemen, at least not in the literal sense. Bedrooms with computers and iphones are the new cave and fire because survival has been made far easier, soy meat exists, carbohydrates exist, vitamins and other pills exist. Yet still my dietary habits cause contention when they come up.   
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112I still don’t understand how one can have a problem with someone being axiomatically opposed to causing harm for pleasure. If we apply the principle to any other instance it is highlighted as the crux of the matter and dealt with appropriately. 
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114I walk down the street and I see a beautiful young woman. In me is lust, in this lust is momentum and it is the momentum of this lust that drives me forward as I place my hands on her soft ponytail and feel the elastic hairband in my palm as my grip tightens. My callouses meet the roots that penetrate her skull like a gathering of thin spears. 
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116The handles are pulled. They are bladeless! She screams as the hair is ripped out of her skull. Maybe the blades are far deeper in her skull than I realised. Regardless, the pain is no less reminiscent of anything other than that of being stabbed. 
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118I shake her head by grabbing another clump of hair. The screaming continues. Her dainty palms rise up to defend her from my assault, I react by placing her in a headlock with my powerful arms and I squeeze, squeeze hard on her pretty neck. I feel her necklace exacerbating the pain I'm placing upon her and feel resolute, the universe has endorsed my attack! 
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120I can’t see it but I assume it’s real silver. The young woman appears to be somewhat well off, what with her gucci handbag and all. Maybe she’s a proletariat slag, a working class chav who owns a fake. It doesn’t matter to me. 
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122I increase the pressure then sweep her legs out from under her, she hits the cobblestones with a loud crack. I see blood but I don’t bother to check if it’s from her nose or skull. Clearly she has stopped resisting as the screaming has metamorphosised into groaning. Evidently, when pain amalgamates fully with the experience, the fear leaves and what was an articulate scream that fully enunciated the emotional terror, becomes pure submission. A groan. Continued groaning. 
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124I find the zip on her skirt.
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127In this case, would harm for pleasure be justified? You could argue against eating meat by attempting to add nuance, by bringing up the authenticity of the item and telling me that this authenticity brings with it flavour and real nutrition which is why fake meat does not compare. A hand is not better than a pussy. Pussy is the real thing. 
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129
130
131Xxxx
132
133
134Chapter 5
135
136 Last night a flock of doves tore my skin off in droves and white were their feathers no more.
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138But there were no feathers on my bed when I awoke, to my despair. 
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140Xxxx
141
142
143Chapter 6
144
145I think I have the quality known to the world as charisma. I’m likeable. I’m funny. 
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147Working on the truck also increased my ability to conjure up small talk tenfold, to converse is something I despise but something I am very good at. 
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149I’m also apparently not too bad looking and I try to take care of myself, for I dread to be unpresentable. My sense of style is somewhat timeless, albeit not unique nor ostentatious so i’m always quietly fashionable. 
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151Due to these factors entwined, most people assume I'm good with women. 
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153This is not entirely untrue. I’ve had relationships before, however they all formed by accident. I used to be somewhat naive and possibly, may still be which has lead to me “flirting” without realising and then having to suffer the consequences.
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155I have never pursued a relationship purposefully. The idea of being with someone sickens me. Not just someone, women specifically. This isn’t to say I'd prefer being with a man. Homosexuality is clearly a mental illness, one we treat via public acceptance. We give the depressed medication to alieviate their condition, we give the homosexual open arms to ease their suffering, we give the transgender a welcoming society and estrogen to cure their ills best we can. Most problems of the body, mind and soul are fixed this way. 
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157“Fixed”. A plaster on a gaping wound, fixed.
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159The fundamental problem I have with relationships is love. Can you imagine being dependent on love? I dislike women because I refuse to let myself replace logic with nonsensical ideas, and women are as nonsensical as can be because they run purely, solely on love. To love is to be intimate and to be intimate is to waste time. To waste time is to harm. 
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161Time spent cuddling is wasted.
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163Time spent fucking is wasted. 
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165Time spent crying is wasted. 
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167Romance is harm for pleasure.
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169Xxxx
170
171Casio? 
172
173Chapter seven
174
175I do not care for money in the slightest. Nor do I read the news and fret about the economy, purely because I earn money so I can eat. The fact I earn more than the average person does nothing for me. Should I feel pride? Should I feel shame? 
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177People who ascribe morals to an economic model are often thought to be illogical. 
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179I suppose this is because economics is considered a soft science and backed by data, run entirely logically without personal bias taken into account, in theory. The people that do ascribe a morality to an economic model are also the type of person to be politically minded to such an extent that they will rattle on interminably about whatever ideology they adore or despise and show proof of their allegiance via a terrible graphic t shirt or a pin, made in China. 
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181I disagree entirely. 
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183It’s only natural and sensible to dissect an economic model and justify in human terms the morality the actions each limb of the model takes. 
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185Capitalism for example is fundamentally selfish. To attack capitalism is to become weak, to be a communist in the modern age is to be a person lacking of masculinity, with no place in the real world because utopia is at the forefront of the mind and any utopia, any paradise that exists on earth does not exist without capitalism. 
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187It’s a catch 22. 
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189Peace and love? Get rich and move to suburbia to live with other harmless individuals. An abolished social hierarchy? Get rich and live with other rich people. A garden of Eden with nectar and women who wear big leaves? Have just enough money to go to Thailand and purchase the body of a young woman, the leaves are free. 
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191However, capitalism is intrinsically a somewhat evil economic model because it is the model of the self. I want so I take. I take via trade. I trade via work. Me, me, me, me, I, I, I, I. I want more, I trade more. I work more. I control the trade. You work for me. A parasitic relationship. I feed on the pain I inflict on the employee so I can have more. 
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193Communism is also just as inherently cruel. It is an economic model completely based upon subjugation. This time the selfishness becomes the dominance of the few upon the many. They decide who gets what and when. Scarcity is a myth says the communist. Maybe, but so what? It exists when you start handing out bread and realise stocks are low. Freedom becomes scarce because bread must be made. Altruism? Pragmatic? Is life for life’s sake altruistic or pragmatic? Communism may force bread down your throat and force you to live, but what life is a life with no freedom? 
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195Surely then an economic model bullied by an ethical framework of no relation to it would fundamentally fix it. Selfishness, in moderation, any I - centric behaviour is easily tempered by religiosity. Take the western world for example. Things were running more or less smoothly up until the abolition of the church. Oh sure, it exists in actuality; in reality, in the form of Churches, pretty little things or pretty big things that decorate the streets with their sentimentality, their ode to nostalgia, their ode to faith, a declaration of adoration and worship of God. 
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197Each form of society does seem to generally follow the fundamental architecture of the very first edition of Christianity, Catholicism. In each society we see The Holy Ghost (A latent or explicit worship of a religion that binds the soul, binds the citizen’s morality), The Father (The Government who seeks to hold dominion over the minds that the flesh composing the society requires to function) and The Son, (seen here in the form of the economy, that silent, choking hand upon your neck that keeps the body doomed to repeat certain movements for eternity, unless permission to escape is bought. Even then, the freedom is momentary and monetary.)
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199But no one is Christian anymore. With the sexual revolution (and arguably, the civil rights movements that happened more or less all over the west) the decline of Christianity was set in motion. As sex became something to be celebrated and induldged in, it became a commodity. 
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201As desire became commodified more so than ever, blatantly so, the Church had no ability to control the state anymore for that was its original purpose. Some say Capitalism is the new Church, the new God. 
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203To call Capitalism a religion is infantile and laughable unless one can fully ascribe a sense of morality to economics in which case, you recognise that the economy is fully tied into the existential nature of humanity. 
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205Religion needs sycophants. Capitalism needs immigration to function. Immigrants are sycophantically tied to capitalism. They adhere to the ethical framework of the economic model strictly. Brutal cultures love easy desire. They make music, they form a culture around easy access to desire. Capitalism uses this culture to fuel itself and a self perpetuating cycle ensues. 
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207No part of our existence is without morality. Should we then seek to be morally consistent? To not be hypocrites? If so, is it not the most moral of all things to engage in desire? I like to think I don’t care, but when emotion was the blood in my veins I thought otherwise and I hated desire and I hated capitalism for enabling it. 
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209Oscar Wilde; in the book “The Picture Of Dorian Grey”, using the voice of Sir Henry Wotton, proclaims “Influence is immoral because to influence someone is to subject them to wearing the  skin of another and in doing so prevents them from actualising their own dreams”.
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211One could easily attribute this mean characteristic of imposing the skin of another, the skin of desire upon a person to capitalism, with said skin only being flayed by the christian ethical framework. A part of me agrees. The side that won however, is the side that tells me that consequentialism is the answer and if the consequence of capitalism is everyone indulging in happiness, then who am I to argue against it? 
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213All forms of ethics and morality are domination. They all impose the will of another upon an easy target. I am not an acolyte or a sycophant of capitalism or any other variant. I have imposed logic on my heart to temper the former emotions that raged inside and fortunately for me it’s worked tremendously well. The only emotion that still runs rampant however is anger. 
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215
216Anger, anger, anger. 
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218
219
220Xxxx
221
222Chapter five
223
224I sit at my computer and gaze at the new monitor I purchased recently. It’s a 31” IPS panel 75hz monitor made by a korean company, AOC. At first it felt too big, too overwhelming. I had to rearrange the corner of my room to make it fit comfortably, but after I had shuffled the desk around, rotated and pushed it into the alcove the slope of my ceiling created and pushed the monitor back until it touched the wall it became quite comfortable to use.
225
226A few crumbs litter the desk. Cheap thirty pence crisps I had purchased on a whim the other day to snack on while drinking I suppose. I should clean up. 
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228To the left of my shitty chinese made keyboard is my coaster, a book by Richard Price called The Whites. I specifically chose this to be my coaster because the blurb made the book sound like dogshit so I figured no harm would be done if I were to use it as a coaster. Upon it is my corkscrew, cork still attached, (BODEGAS PIQUERAS) and a small off white to yellow plate. There’s liquid nestled on it. I smell it. At first it smells of piss, then I realise it’s flat beer. How long as that been there?
229
230I’m bored. My feet tap against the floor as I browse the internet, seeking to appease my restlessness. The urge to do something is intense and causes me to fidget more and more rapidly, frenetically. 
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232I often feel this way. Sometimes it even hurts. I used to get immense heartburn when I used to care about things. I would read the news and see yet another cause of a muslim grooming gang, another girl chopped up and forced to become a kebab then probably sold to her parents. Another politician shown to be corrupt. Another policeman who admits that the crime they are paid by the people to solve and stop is perpetual and unstoppable, an immovable force against a very moveable object. The policeman steps back with his hands up. He shrugs. “What can I do? I’m just a man after all, I'm not really a policeman. Think of my family. I’m just doing what i’m told.”  
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234Now I get the same pain in my chest because the apathy is at the forefront of my mind using my suppressed emotion as fuel. The same fuel, a different reaction, the same burning, consuming feeling in my chest. 
235
236I used to get rid of it by walking. I’d take a good hot shower. Get dressed. Now I work instead.
237
238Xx
239
240Chapter six
241
242PEROXIDE. I cough to suppress a gag. To my surprise Valerie was at her desk, tapping away at the keyboard that matched her Apple branded monitor. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. I watched her for a few seconds. Evidently, going by how engrossed she was in her typing, she had not noticed I had entered the building. She must have been composing an email of the utmost importance, for the heavy doors of the dark bricked building caused the air pressure and temperature of the room to fluctuate into its opposite when opened due to their ability to seal the room and with it, it’s inhabitants. 
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244She was dressed in her usual attire. A palette of at first, harsh sun blinding, yellow hair, followed by muddy brown eyes, pink lips, a spotless white blouse, unbuttoned just enough to almost be distracting and a black skirt that melted into dark brown tights. I noticed for the first time that she wore a crucifix. I thought it gleamed when I looked at it and it did, it gleamed as she noticed me and turned towards me as the light emanating from her monitor made the cross sparkle momentarily.
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246She smiled as she looked at me. “I didn’t see you come in.” 
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248We made eye contact as I looked away from the cross. It had stopped gleaming. Her smile was radiant, ostentatiously so. Ostentatious? The teeth that escaped the confines of her lips said something else, they didn’t tell me in self indulgent terms that they were acting in good will, they seemed to actually, stunningly, be a show of genuine human expression. Obsequious was this smile. She was actually happy to see me.
249
250“I’m sorry. That work ethic of yours must have protected you from being distracted by me. I’ve always been impressed by it.”
251
252She blushed deeply. Honestly, I was quite taken aback. I had forgotten the effect compliments have on women, anyone really. “Oh it’s not that. I must have been in my own little world.” She seemed like the cat who had caught the crow as she replied, her white teeth still showing the authenticity of the attention she was showing me, or rather the pleasure she felt in the attention I was showing her. I realised now that she assumed I had been checking her out as I stared at her silver crucifix. This judgement of hers must have changed the landscape of our interactions into a momentarily casual one and she was taking full advantage of it.
253
254“I know the feeling.” 
255“I know you do. I often check in on you to see if you want anything like a coffee or some lunch but you’re always drawing and thinking. Sometimes I see you there just staring at the window with the coffee i’ve made you just sitting there. Then you come back to Earth and drink the whole thing in a gulp. Isn’t it cold? I find cold coffee disgusting.” 
256“I don’t mind it”. 
257As she had turned to face me she had pushed her chair out from her desk slightly. I only realised she had done so when she uncrossed her legs then crossed them again, the right leg on top of the left this time. Her patent leather heels were off. Her expensive handbag of whatever luxury brand was in style at the time was near, as if it were keeping guard. A leather wall with a handle, to be used to protect the insides and apparently your heels, whenever necessary. 
258
259I pushed my hand through my hair and sighed. As I opened my mouth to stress the importance of the work I was doing and how I would need to be left alone to focus, she interrupted me. 
260“You seem tired. Are you tired? Are you ok?” Certain teeth were hidden now as her lips changed formation. Compassion was the new layout of her face. The eye brows were furrowed as if she was angry with herself that I was upset, the corners of her lips were pointing down. I noticed the lipstick was impeccably placed.
261“Hm? Oh i’m fine. Just swamped with work. You know, the Einsman contract is very interesting but very time consuming. I’ll be glad when I'm done with it because of the relief I'll feel from not having to interact with those twats anymore”. I added the last bit to cut the tension in half. It didn’t work. She placed her elbows on the desk and rested her head on her palms, closing the distance between us by roughly half but keeping her position as one of submission. Her head was crotch level. 
262She looked up at me after staring absentmindedly into the distance. A distance that was somewhat blocked by my crotch. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. 
263
264“I know. I was just in here filing some more forms. Part of the contract requires me updating them every week, so I send them your latest draft and estimates as per usual. However it appears they couldn’t find the one from a few months ago. The boss had suddenly remembered it apparently and wanted to see it urgently; I've been talking to his receptionist, we’re somewhat close friends because we used to mingle in the same scenes a few years ago, (I had no idea what this meant when she said it, later i’d learn the truth) and she told me that he had been drinking in his office as he usually does then started talking to her about his childhood home. Apparently the building you’re designing for him had felt like he was looking at the evolution of the place he grew up in before you started attending to the caveats he had given you for the final product.” 
265
266I leaned against the wall with my eyes closed. A childhood home? I was designing a skyscraper. What kind of bourgeoises lifestyle did he live in which a drawing of a skyscraper evoked memories of a childhood home? He had mentioned evolution. Was he a futurist? Was this building, for him, symbolic of elevating himself into the future? From home to house, from house to towering dominance in the form of steel, glass and brick in the heart of London. Maybe he was one of those technocratic old men, old men who aware of their mortality, had started to revere technology as they knew their time was up but that computers would live forever. Unable to build a skyscraper out of a computer he had opted for all the synthetic materials at his disposal. A childhood home made of old brick and wood, with soil in front and behind it,organic human life sitting on a fabric sofa now turned into glass and steel, with the life inside to be outnumbered by the amount of technology inside it. 
267
268I opened my eyes again. She was staring at me with her back against the chair, arms crossed. The crucifix was nestled in her cleavage. “We should get a drink”. 
269
270I accepted. 
271
272Chapter seven
273
274I stood outside the Phoenix Bar on top of Alexandra Palace. Standing outside the door, I took gulps of my pint as I waited for her to come back from the bathroom. As I gulped the security guard standing behind me was counting every gulp of mine as he used me for a game of she loves me, she loves me not. I ignored him as I got the pint down me quickly. As I placed the empty glass on the table, I wondered if he got the answer he wanted. 
275“I’m back!” she said as she grabbed my arm and forced me to sit opposite her. Through the pint glass on the table she was distorted, but the cross looked the same. The power of faith.
276
277
278“Have you seen the painting of the phoenix behind us? It’s scares me.” I turned around to see if I could see it from the angle I was at. I could just make out it’s form. From what I could see, a dark green phoenix, made of the material it was reborn from (in this case forest and brick) was rising to the heavens; a spirit made reality and incinerating every life form that dared infringe upon the opening of its wings. I could see why it made her uncomfortable, why she found it scary. She feared it’s brutality, she feared the heat that emanated from its wings. I feared its lack of existence. I feared the lack of immolated beings.
279
280“Have you heard of Francisco Goya?” I asked her while she was sipping her cocktail. As she was in the middle of enjoying her drink she had to swallow and wipe her mouth before she answered. The ice clinked as she sat it down. The umbrella straw continued to float as it bounced between the soft currents of the vodka and whatever else was currently in the process of being very slight waves. “Hmm, i’m not sure I have. Is he an author?” “He was a painter. A spanish one.” “Really? What made you ask if i’ve heard of him?” I turned around to look at the painting again. It wasn’t well painted really, it was rather shallow in terms of complexity of technique, but the subject matter was efficiently drawn in a music by numbers sort of way. The bar was situated in the newly renovated Alexandra Palace and due to this, needed some connection to the history of the place. The bar itself had been burnt down twice, by accident or ill intention I had no idea, but this is how the bar had got it’s name of “The Phoenix”. It had its own history but the history of the palace subsumed it and made it seem as if it were intruding upon its royal legacy. To somewhat numb the audacity of it’s trespassing, the interior decorator had no doubt commissioned an “old looking painting” and what better to exaggerate a non existent antiquity than to draw a mythical creature, as legends were far older than any palace. I did however, find it curious that the phoenix was indiscriminately murdering as it went along it’s flight path. Was this symbolic of the horrors of alcoholism? Was the phoenix, the bar, continuing to harm it’s patrons with it’s well stocked bar, different coloured bottles and taps forming a brilliant plumage that intoxicated with it’s looks and promise of escapism? Or was the painter just angsty for the sake of it? Maybe he wanted to be a real painter and was furious that he had to draw doodles for modern bars purely for the sake of decoration. 
281
282“The painting. You said it was scary. I agree, I suppose but Fransico Goya drew some really terrible paintings. Terrible in the emotional sense of the word. They were called the black paintings and still to this day they’re still known all over the world as some of the most frightening paintings to exist on the Earth as we know it.” “The Earth as we know it? I didn’t take you to be a spiritual person.” Again, I had been distracted by my thoughts and not realised that she had been gazing at me in another one of her submissive positions. This time she had her drink in one hand with the other on the straw with her body  leaning hard on the table. If I had leaned forward our lips would have touched. Luckily I've always been somewhat arrogant in my posture. If I’m not standing rigorously straight like a soldier then i’m leaning back, legs crossed. I treat every chair as if it’s a throne I don’t really want yet refuse to abdicate and I have done since I was a child. It’s probably indicative of some strange underlying aspect of my psychology. Rejection of authority? Maybe, regardless I was glad of this odd behaviour of mine even if her lips were enticing. They were glossy today. Were they always? I wasn’t sure but there was no denying how glossed and pink they were at this moment. 
283
284“I’m not. What’s with the crucifix though? I didn’t know you were religious.” She smiled again and the smile turned into a laugh. For a second I was reminded of windchimes. Her laugh rattled me but it was pleasant all the same. I wasn’t sure which one of us was the wind chime but the image remained. “This might surprise you but I go to church every sunday. I was raised by my grandma and she insisted on taking me. Sometimes I think I just haven’t broken the habit but I pray often and I like reading the Bible before bed so I must be religious. I do it because it reminds me of her but I don’t think I feel that much nostalgia in general.” I was shocked by the honesty of her reply. Should I continue down this avenue of discussion? I knew that if I did, we would have a bond before the night was up. It might make work more difficult, more complicated. As the alcohol begun to work it’s magic on my muscles I decided to go against my intuition and continue broach the subject. Her hair didn’t smell that bad anyway. 
285
286“Raised by your grandma? Why?” “My parents never really got along. I think they had me by accident and tried to stay together for my sake but they couldn’t , they were too young and I was too demanding. It was either become a parent or never grow up and they had gotten a taste of adult life in the first two years of my own and decided to try and go back in time by letting me live with my grandmother on my mother’s side. She was eventually granted custody by the court because my parents lacked the intelligence to deal with all the benefit payments and so on. They found it easier just to legally give me up. My dad lives in spain now, I think he’s a handyman by the beach somewhere. My mum has a new family with some dickhead that always gives me weird looks when we meet up. I can’t stand his leering so I don’t see them often. I think it’s been about five years since I saw her face to face. Now I just see her face to facebook.” I laughed at the wordplay. She smiled sheepishly. 
287
288“What about you? Are your parents still together?”
289
290I told her they were. What followed was silence. The silence was broken when she asked me to take her home. I obliged. 
291
292Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
293
294Chapter eight 
295
296Streetlights walked with us. Her body was buried in the crevices of my own flesh with our arms intertwined. She was heavy as we walked. Each step was not in tandem, but we somehow ended up half synchronising our movements. Sometimes she stumbled. Sometimes she skipped. I attempted to walk with her as one, but the joyful, infantile cadence of her footsteps were impossible to replicate. It was with hesitance that I walked with her, arm in arm.
297
298Why was I so hesitant? Why the tenuous grasp on reality? Like walking a tightrope, I strived for balance and achieved it by offsetting her random, arbitrary, leaps of faith in footstep form but I was tense. We were on a wire. She was on a cloud, she was on the flat edge of the cliff before her. I was on the empty sky. Below me was jagged edges. 
299
300Below her, was I.
301
302Xxxxx
303
304I had to barge the door of her apartment open. The entrance stank of piss. I presumed the door was stuck because the piss had turned into some form of viscous, au natural glue. One torrent of piss is nothing, but the scent attracts more. Multiple people had pissed upon the hinges and stickiness had ensued. My shoulder barge dismantled the cobwebs of sticky piss. We were in. 
305
306The elevator was still time encapsulated. Never before had I thought of time as being stale but the miasma trapped in this small room seemed to beg to be the epitome of such symbolism. The air felt crisp and hot like an old bone ready to break. As I breathed in against my will I could taste osteoporosis. She leaned against me and sighed. The keypad glittered as the light ran from number to number. Then there was a ding as the light met it’s current goal, our goal, opening the doors of the lift with a groan.
307
308Lightbulbs encased in plastic bars flickered. What terrible conditions for one to live in. I felt my bourgeoise self shudder at this realisation. Social housing is nothing to be ashamed of said the middle class recesses of my brain. The rest of me disagreed. 
309
310Stumbling to her door she entered a key, twisted and with a click we were in. A click and here I was, stuck with a drunk woman with ill intentions and at first glance, a fabric sofa I was sure she was soon to throw me on. The catalyst for said ill intentions. She pulled me in and with said pull, I sat on the sofa, her momentum drawing me next to her. A catalyst indeed. 
311
312The romance was dispersed as she vomited. From her bathroom, her cries of pain caused by regurgitation, echoed throughout the small room  she had, in her haste, forgotten to close the door.
313
314 I sank into the sofa. 
315
316Have you ever really felt the palms of your hands cup your eyes and push? Push hard, push, too wipe away the things they’ve seen.  A wall of palm flesh and bone, of force, to PUSH the sorrow, to WIPE away the macabre things you’ve seen. Macabre? Macabre indeed, the death of a relationship, the death of YOUR relationship in front of you, a push, a push and a push and a PUSH as you see stars, stars you want to see because to see said stars is to see the cosmic and to forget the brutal earthly reality of it all. I didn’t succumb to the stars due to my failure of failure of a sexual conquest, too see said stars because I needed to let my mind ascend to a realm of misery that the Earth dwellers could only fail to revel in.
317
318She vomited and I saw Stars. 
319
320I saw Stars.
321
322 She vomited.
323
324With the stars and the vomit I was free and awake again. 
325
326I left and slammed the door. The elevator dinged and the air was cold as I exited the building. 
327
328Then pain surged throughout my cheekbones, then my entire face. A punch had knocked me out. The last thing I felt was fire. The fire consumed me and the land was the landing ground for my ashes, arms wide open, arms ready to caress. Arms with teeth ready to consume, arms that fed upon duress. 
329
330
331Chapter nine
332
333It hurt when I woke up. The bruises in my brain matched the bruises in my psyche. 
334
335Simultaneously was the only way to describe their marriage, the marriage that brutalised my entire self as realisation set in. I had been attacked, I had been mugged by God knows who. 
336
337Probably immigrants. Immigrants? Fuck knows who they were, and who the fuck cared. I had been a victim of criminality and bruises were my witness. 
338
339The sofa was my hospital bed. Her hand was the nurse. My gaze was foggy, hers was worse. I blinked, she blinked too. We synchronised. Our blinks were family. My blink was mine. She had adopted the formation, the dance of my own eyelashes and their stretch was mine, their stretch was heres. They reached for the stars to flee, too her they reached for the stars to mine, the contention was visible to I, too her they were blind, too stars they reached they were mine, too the earth they prayed was too her and as I looked to her I, I realised, she was right, in her eyes, in her eyes, the lashes would dine.