I get the bus from Placa Catalunya. Walking up from Carrer de Julià Portet, 5. The sweat pumping out of me. Down my back. My hair wet from it. I sit down. Alone. Alone on the bus. And I feel sad. I am an exile now. And I am returning…

It’ll be Christmas again soon. October next week, no. The week after. And then. November. December. Another year. God. It was July when I had COVID. Feels like yesterday. And in January, with Maria. Outside the Fastnet. With Nathan and Aine. They’re not together anymore. Met Federica in May. All…

For Robert E Grant. He asked me could he stay on the couch. Not in those words. I messaged him something I should’ve messaged him days before. A list of books I had. Said I’d leave any one of them in the bar for him and he could keep it for as long as…

“Been anywhere nice this year love?” “No.” “Any plans for the winter break?” “No.” “Not much of a talker are ye chucky?” Silence. “So was it a one on the back and sides?”, she says, she being Tracey, the barber, as she flips through colour coordinated hair trimmers. “A half”…

I hadn’t spoken to a soul for twenty-six days. That was a lie of course. I had spoken to souls. I’d spoken to Erin, I’d spoken to the Glovo man, and I’d spoken to the cashier at Caprabo. But it felt like nobody. Yes, it felt like there was nobody…

The city is silent aside from the beggars and the thieves squealing below. Nobody is on the streets besides they. Not at this hour, no. You can hear them trying to force closed shop shutters open to no avail. They pour in and out of squats, forever shrouded in darkness…

The bar was empty. Besides myself and Daryl. He’d just knocked off the front lights warding away potential drinkers passing in the night. It was a quiet enough night and that was just fine by me. …

It was a cool crisp morning in Pimlico and Will Self was googling his own name. The morning hadn’t started like that, that would be insane. No, the morning started like any other. With his grotesque Munch face and Schiele form, Selfie initially executed the same task he had carried…

“Hi, I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Hardcock?” “Ah, and your name.” “Noel.” “Surname?” “Oh sorry. Burgess. Noel Burgess”, I say like some anxiety riddled James Bond. “Noel Burgess. Hm… hmm. Just hang on a second Noel.” She picks up the phone. “A Mr. Burgess here. Yes… Yes… Okay… Not…