It’s about 1155 when I wake up; throw some sweat pants, which used to be Jack Wills, on. The brand has washed off. Catch a glimpse of my abs in the mirror, still there, just. Check my voice mail, nothing, check my other voice mail, nothing. Watch some day time tv with the sound on, watch some day time tv with the sound off. Have a cigarette on the balcony in the drizzle.

At 1505 I decide now would probably be a good time to start the day. Take a wander to a homewear store, look for new champagne flutes, since I lost all mine to washing up. Nothing. Contemplate a drink, pretend I no longer drink, walk to the water front, and sit staring at the people, at the river, the ant that is crawling across the yellow, piss stained pavement. End up in a cocktail bar, Vodka Colins, Stoli is the weapon on choice today.

End up in the mall. Just stare walking, that kind of walk you do when there is nothing else to do, but you are looking for something to do. From the third floor I imagine someone pushing me over the edge of the railing. My legs turn weak. Look for my friends’ books in the book store, nothing. Contemplate buying Breakfast At Tiffany’s. Decide a female protagonist doesn’t take my fancy, wonder what people might say. Look at books I read as a child. Walk past a shitty tattoo parlor where an acquaintance of mine gets inked. I’ve always thought they were shit. Stare at my reflection.Stubble face, gum in mouth, rounded detail of my hair. Stone Chinos, Grey winter T-shirt, Grey unbranded hooded sweat, brown leather belt with the numbers 1967 which I’ve try to scratch off. End up in the toilets, contemplate jacking off just for the fun of it. Piss. Leave.

Walk past a underwear shop in the old arcade. I've been offered free stuff there. Probably because the owner fancies me. He isn't in, which is probably for the best, I've given up on my CK 365s .Run up a sixty pound tab in a cocktail bar; tell the waitress every single function of every single button on her till. Smoke a cigarette as the sky starts to turn, night and rain falling. Don’t pay the tab.

Meet a friend, in a lounge bar by the water front, candles on the table, cask ales. No Vodka, No drink. Someone’s birthday. A live band starts to set up. Call you in the morning, hit the land line. No one uses iPhones anymore. Stare at the sign on the back of the toilet door "And they lived...happily ever after" contemplate jerking off.

Required: Louis Vuitton Agenda 2011/12

Offered: Following Photograph

I awake with a sharp intake of breath. 1204:11. Its not until 1204:48 that I inhale again. Panic attack. Realisation of mortality.

There are two of us, sitting in Southgate, an espresso, a tea, talk of travels, of life. Of living in a new apartment... post graduation, of fitness and health, palladian architecture, rents, landlords, contracts, life, social scenes, contacts we've made, could make, break.

He's sleeping with Prince Valium tonight.

I can't breathe. Unbutton my shirt. Three down. If this were a date I'd probably try and nail you, you know this. We jest about it often. The way good friends can. I can filter, and count on one hand the acquaintances from friends. You're always on that hand.

1123. Three minutes to make the station. London? Perhaps. Call me sometime, you owe me lunch.

I have these dreams, as the plane takes off, it crashes. These happen every couple of days or so, and although I have no idea what they mean, or why they occur, they are the closest thing to routine I have.

I'm sick of winter, and long to spend my life in LA. I've made travel arrangement with several friends, but I have unfinished business here so I keep missing flights. I've no life plans, no direction, and certainly no intention of spending my life in a 9-5.

I'm sitting on the steps at the waterfront and staring at the numbers in the jacket of this book, 42, 46, 50. And the first few pages described the life of a character very much like mine, and when I mention in passing..."Sometimes I feel like Esther Greenwood" at a meeting, that happens later in the afternoon, I'm greeted with an alarmed response.

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.