And the chill makes it around two degrees, and the lack of sleep makes every step an effort. An attendant peals back the cage, and white-light from under the street level floods through the stairwell. And by the ticket machine I glance in to an office, but your not there. And I'm on the complete opposite side of the city. Victoria, South-bound, is dead, and delayed by two minutes. And eventually one station becomes another, and then nothing more than a vast flood lit hall. The steps on which we first met, empty, and the windows behind, towering shadows. And platform seventeen, and that moment three years ago, seem so distant that they become almost irrelevant. But because of this I'm reminded of you. And I'm no longer sure what exactly it is I'm reminded of.

From the bed that I'm lying on the ceiling wont stop spinning, and is no longer white. And in the en suit a five hundred pound ice sculpture, that reads "21 Prince ___" is slowly melting. And a phone, on loud speaker, projects screaming from a club, and I just can't party like I used to. And in the taxi, the driver wont allow the sculpture in the boot, and a police officer turns a blind eye as it's rammed into the back seats. And someone is cutting powder with a Nectar card, on a drawing desk in a bedroom, and passing around a twenty. And from the en suit someone shout laughs 'This is dedication'. And a bouncer thumbs a tag that is pinned on my chest that has an address written on it, and the words 'Return to' written above the address. And someone is taking photos, and flashes are blinding.

I've spent the last week in a Garden city on the South-coast. Wearing the same outfit. Red skinny jeans, a limited edition white print t-shirt accessorised
with black three d wayfarers and a vodka stained light charcoal hood, which I occasionally swap for a plumb cardigan. And today I'm wearing the plumb cardigan. And as I'm sitting in the winter sun, smoking a cigarette that someone placed in my pocket, and drinking a black coffee I catch my reflection in window. And my eyes are thick and black and my hair, styled, but messed up, my lips split dry. And my headphones lead the eye to my waist, which is looking lean and prefect. And the soundtrack to this coffee is by Simon and Garfunkel. And this truly is the best of times, and although my head feels like shit, I'm actually looking fucking amazing, perhaps even better than my reflection tells.

And luckily someone is around to take photographs, and if I were to show you a photograph that would sum up the trip it would be this:




And because life can't be all rosy and sweet, my return has shown that my days are mundane and numb. And if it weren't for the three week old Evian water that I found yesterday morning, in my bedside cabinet, I'd probably be dead. Or on a massive come down. And right about now both of these options seem enticing.

Tuesday at the clinic, I receive a repeat. And I notice four people I actually know, and awkward is a word that couldn't even begin to describe. And after dispense I walk to Starbucks, where I sit at a table. And the coffee which I get for free was never warm. And has spilled from the cup onto a napkin. Staining the white sheet brown. And I think about my teeth, and stare at their reflection in my communication device, whilst Latitude tells me that all contacts have left the city. And I contemplate driving down to the coast for a couple of days.

And those couple of days come and pass, and with the absence of company, I simply stay behind glass for the duration. And eventually when I feel the need to go outside, it's not all that great. And in a photo I find, a boy wearing a Black t-shirt with an MTV logo on it, and in the background is an Oman beach, and it reminds me to book so some sort of flight. And I add a comment which reads 'Where is this must have from?' And it's been four days and still no reply.

And in a twist of events which probably involve boredom, small orange tablets, and gin, I'm watching Five-hundred Days of Summer. And basically what the production team have done is taken a rough outline of my life and watered it down into five hundred, less dramatic days, and the likeness is uncanny. And really there is not much more to say other than, watch it or something.

I'm talking to a friend on Tuesday, in a Starbucks somewhere near a station. And he is telling me about the time he listened to Radiohead for about eight months of his life, including most of a spring, summer and autumn. And I'm thinking it's pretty cool, and that I want to achieve something this cool. And so far I've listened to the song Nude 42 times, and have 6 hours 9 minutes and 44 secounds of songs to go, not including the Greatest Hits.

And to allow Radiohead to take over my life I'm playing songs from Ok Computer whilst I'm standing in the shower, and the water is spitting above, and I notice the tiles are no longer white and I go to touch them, and I'm standing there leaning against the wall, just standing, doing nothing. And it's pretty good. And I can feel the blood in my veins. And on the other side of the wall length window snow endlessly falls, lifted on the wind, silent and fine like rain. And somewhere in the background No Surprises plays, and I want to go outside, like this, and stand under the street lamp, and feel the snow sting my chest, arms, shoulders.

The night just wont end. And it might be the gin I've been drinking or it might just be that it's extremely difficult to sleep in these conditions. But either way, the shivering wont stop and my mind is racing. Filling with images from years ago, and some not so long ago, and thoughts of stupid events, and money, and the trust fund that's run dry, and trust, and exams and travelling and all manner of things.

And basically I've been popping Doxilamine Succinate like there's no tomorrow, and hell, I've even tried snorting it. And what's left of the powder, dashed across my desk, keys, credit card, egg shell blue. And Radiohead rhythmically floats from my flat pannel low watt crappy speakers, and fills the room. And a fan heater sends convection towards the ceilings. And I use the hair-dryer to warm the bed. And the snow from Siberia never comes. And eventually I start to lose focus, and sink. And at 0401 a car alarm wakes me, and radiohead at still playing, and I crave Ribena, and at 0847 my house mate returns, and at 0903 leaves again.

And I eventually force myself to wake up at 1028. And make a coffee for breakfast, and eat the foam for desert, topped with chocolate. And when it comes to reading some official documents, my head starts to race again, and I watch as the cars outside, a BMW 3 Series, and a Citron of some sort, struggle up the street, and I start to think about snow, and how it's formed and suddenly it's 1239 and these documents ain't gonna read themselves. So I head to Starbucks.

And in the song Walls by up and...erm gone band, All Time Low; Who have recently received a lot of airtime. The opening verse goes a bit like this, at some point: "Take off your shirt, your shoes, those skinny jeans I bought for you."

And I'm thinking if:
a) I had them on in the first place
b) Someone asked me too.
then I would happily do as the man says. 'Cos I'm not one to rock the boat.

So in a moment of quarter life crisis/self-reflection I decide to buy some shirts some shoes and some skinny jeans...for myself. And so I log onto a UK (Nondescript) store, punch in my credit card details and add a few items to my basket. And after about forty minutes and three hundred pounds I've finally reached the checkout.

And if this where a real store, right now I'd be asking to have these items gift wrapped. But its not, so I don't. And instead as a little treat I opt for 'Next day delivery(Order Before 1400)' and it's actually 2034, and whilst I wait for about three days for these items to arrive I am simply going to pretend that time only exist for people who worry about it, and they usually don't have much left.