I'm staring in the mirror, mounted on white tile. Just staring at myself, naked. The stubble on my face. And I should shave. And I'm thinking of things I need to buy, accessories for my dinner jacket. A tie pin, a new pocket square, a real bow tie.

I'm staring mainly at the location of my next tattoo, lower left peck. But it seems like such an effort to book an appointment. And I don't want to talk to anyone I don't know. Not right now. That's my thing this month. Reservation. Brogues.

And I've thought it for a while now, the comparability of myself and Clay,Hayden. And my mother calls, asking what I want for Christmas, and I tell her nothing.

'Nothing' I say
'Vouchers? Clothes? '
' I don't really want anything...someone to pay of my credit card? Nothing really.'

My spirit animal is Wolf. I remember a painting my mother commissioned of her spirit guide. She used to say we looked a like. But I don't think I could even guide myself. What is the snow fall like in Alaska? I want life, real life, outside of institution. And a wage. I want to be a capitalist, not a survivor nor parasite. Leather gloves. New outer coat.

When I leave on the Sunday the canopies of are still red, orange, intact. Come Friday the only remnantce of this is scatted across the drive, the road, the windshield of a Black VW Polo.

And I'm told that I look more European than before, and I feel pale. And I contemplate a spray tan, the sun bed, but decide otherwise. And I'm looking for a new three piece and the wind is slamming rain against the sash windows, and I'm thinking about summer. The Minack theatre, the north surf. Christmas. And I want to go home. Sell up. Leave this apartment. Live again, free from restrains. And I intend too.