Sitting on a Tube train wondering if she would survive marmite and toast with me. Too many people in my face. No space. No time for thinking. The seats are for people, not your fucking handbag.
What happened to my London? I know it wasn't an illusion. I often dream of my childhood. The estate I was brought up on. For some reason the dreams are played out in the lift shaft. I considered passing this by John, my psychotherapist - the lift shaft may be a metaphor. Or I may be going insane.
My head has always been full of fantasies. None of them realised. I'm too busy cunting off hipsters and culture rapists. Those who thieve my air.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Mindfulness is a great tool.
I'm lost in the fog of a winters fuck up. I loathe nearly every person I walk past yet I don't even know them. I judge them all as the shallow and vapid bastards I hate, which in turn is shallow and vapid of me.
I offered a tramp a ciggarette and he turned me down. It was close to Green Park.
Good coffee, a roll up, a film with subtitles. This is my life. I found my own way of loving myself . Just dump the mirrors.