From the steps I'm staring down the new cut, towards the gallery, at the harbour size, sparse, cold. Condensation rising from fumes in the water, backs of AC units. 47. And in the next few pages, start to sound familiar. Shared character traits. The love of vodka, the need for water, the feeling that life is passing me by, the blandness of life . And I should probably be writing a thesis, but right now, I couldn't even find the words to fill the back of a cigarette packet. And all I can think about is leaving this city, how grotesque my personality is, the view from Colston Tower.
I imagine drowning in the harbour. The water at my neck, my lips, my lungs. Flooding. Watching my silhouette from the bow of Under The Stars. Struggling. I've poisoned this city.