As a child, my defining moment was seeing Morrissey swinging a bunch of wilted flowers around on TV; a modern god on Top of the Pops with a quiff too magnificent to resist. Nothing’s ever touched this thrill. It’s been downhill ever since. In the reflections of a rippling puddle down the street after work, a dead cat the size of a white rabbit touches my feet. On another street in another town in yet another watery reflection, my former college wiped clean out of existence; replicated but not the same. The story of my life it seems. Everything changes; the old ways edged out of this place by that which will never come close to the original brand of madness. The dead cat was named Sioux—said so on the tag around its crushed neck. Walking the streets with no one about; the absence of life—of faces—is as palatable as the absence of my mother’s once spurting milk. Cigarettes outside a launderette with no name; the smeared windows showing a me that isn’t me. Hyperventilating on the steps of a library; a library built upon what was once a lush field because the old one was bulldozed to make way for more apartments to house more insects the same as the me that isn’t me. Sioux was black. Big pretty eyes. They were dead yet hungry. Reminded me of vast, underwater mountains. Cafes, too. Greasy ones with carpeted areas reeking of dog shit and hungover memories from the early noughties involving a me that’s no longer here staring in mirrors behind bars on Saturday nights, drunk and three steps away from oblivion clutching a cigarette still burning to this day. Still more dreams of wells. Still the labyrinth of yesterday that’s become my everything. Somewhere—somewhere hidden—there lies a path never taken, filled with the sweetest music imaginable. It’s not close—nothing ever is—and yet in these running, alcoholic lines, you can glimpse almost anything.
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