THE END OF THE ROAD

It seemed to go okay. The outfit you had scrutinised over to get just the right ‘I didn’t intend to come’ feel was not questioned; you’d passed. Passing was getting harder and harder recently.

You went because it was supposed to be ‘the place to go’, but, honestly, you didn’t get it. The atmosphere was studied, and the people were cautious. The whole thing was ‘Dulls- ville’ population fuck knows. DJs, asides, cheap beers, the odd glass of champagne—most likely a crémant—and theoccasional invitation to dinner.

More over, you hated parties. And you hated, even more, exhibitions that were disguised as parties and parties that were disguised as exhibitions. Cool, affected, box-ticking, endurance tests. You couldn’t wait to get home and watch some trash TV or read a difficult book, but most times you were too drunk to focus on either. And, the world was falling apart.

Then after the show its the after party. And around about 4, you gotta (clear out) take it back to your room. Your single room. Your personal ‘collection’. The stuff you really coveted.

You wake up again in a cold sweat, ash and mess all over the floor, unable to sleep, as if drifting in and out of a fever dream. Out of the white noise the dehumanisation agenda was in full swing. It was about time this came to an end.

Rest In Pieces