6am

Yes I'm awake. What are you doing? I'm fucketed, oh dear and 24 times more likely to break your heart.

Have you disappeared off the face of the earth? they ask.

Yes, I'm afraid I finally fell off on Tuesday and I'm wallowing in gloomy space, it's a comfortless place but it's nice to know I'm missed on earth.
I might come back tomorrow. Maybe we could have lunch together? I ask

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buckfast_Tonic_Wine

"It's gold"

Who gives a shit about Snow Patrol?

"I'd love to have a tree house, tree houses are ace," Last night I won a Scotland calendar but today was glorious. I felt good despite spending £100 on books and clothes. When I got to his house he was writhing in bed, clawing the walls because of his hangover. Stig makes me feel calm and relaxed and that's important. He thinks it's okay and that most people would agree he is an oxymoron. And black wiry hair on pale boyish skin. He perfectly articulated everything I think and feel about White Heat and other things. He said the last year of my life in a few lines. And we talked about it, in relation to Glasgow's equivalent 'Optimo wreckheads.' He described the sincerity of Glasgow. He was wearing a knitted jumped that he only wears when he's feeling sorry for himself. Lick his face.

When I got to Stig's dump his spindly fingers were tuning the harp.
Days later I was going to leave blueberries on his doorstep until the jai alai savant-'scarlett johansen why don't you love me?' came into my brain through my headphones and put me back in my place. But I had to play it over again a few times until I got home safely.