Inevitable

Sunlight streaming in through the window, falling on the battered sofa. I sit on the floor of the living room, watch the furniture with distrust. To sit in that sunlight would mean watching the inevitable dust in the inevitable shafts. and falling into those inevitable mines of sleep would leave the afternoon a poisoned wasteland of nothing, save a dream or two. The dreams would not be remembered, inevitably forgotten as afternoon dreams tend to be.

Walking to work yesterday morning, listening to music, I heard someone say something to me. I looked up to catch the words 'have you got a lighter mate...' to which I interjected that no I did not, and he replied '...you MORON' with such bile and hatred I wondered if I had accidentally killed his family. I remember his hot red face, all flustered with inexplicable venom. I smirked as I walked on into work, though secretly I was a bit puzzled why people like him aren't, well, shot, or at sent to work in remote salt mines far, far away from anywhere I might ever be.

I walked along the seafront road from Em's this morning to work. Despite the sunlight now, this morning, the day was full of a white gloom, the horizon of the sea vanishing into a void. It was odd, walking past the fish'n'chip shops all closed, the people gathered outside the Grand Hotel waiting for taxis, and a lone security guard outside the Brighton centre waiting for the model exhibition to open. Something always particularly bleak about out of season seaside towns, particularly on a grey morning at the end of winter.