Late in the Garret

I seem to cause a lot of things to go freaky. Ikea beds. Fish trips. Something in my aura. It must be. Like lunar power, things turn wrong every now and then. You can't pick it up at first. It feels like it's the part of your imagination you'd kept in the dark for years making a surprise appearance, making you feel unusual. Then, an hour or so later you realise that the ginger guy you spoke to earlier just fucked up your head. It's me. I'm sorry.

I don't know how I do it. I feel like Midas except that everything I touch turns to bad. And when you don't drink, and have only three cigars left in the box, it can be a hard thing to deal with in the cold light of night.

So I'm buckling down and fastening hatches in the garret here where I live. Things will look better tomorrow and perhaps one day I won't be so illusive about what it is I'm talking about on here. I'm told I need to be more honest in what I write. But at the moment I can only do honest about other people, not about my own life.

Hope it works out.