Smoke inhale in this underground hell. Or maybe it's all meant to be like this. When I rise up and down. Pogo or sway my hips. This is my exercise today. And it feels weird, strange, uneasy even. That there's a burning deep inside those caverns. How did this sensation become so foreign? So that maybe, there may be some remnants of tinnitus tomorrow. Remember that time when...we listened to music all night and there was some sort of...I don't know. Longing to be held. To be held firmly? When we listened and listened for hours and sometimes we stood and other times we sat and laid on the floor even, but we were so fucking high back then, so I guess it didn't matter. And our bodies melded into one another. Our bodies were like these really heavy skin covered sacks that flopped about and merged with the concrete and the sound and the sweat and the bodies and the muscles and everything was sort of different. So that now, I toke, deeply, on another cigarette. Hoping that one day I will get, I will get it all back. The freedom I currently lack when I'm held in another's arms. Though, it could be, that left alongside eternity. Maybe the dystopic truth of it all is...that without this mask, I am just me and that with it I pretend to be a character from some sort of Berlin rave movie.

There's a familiarity to this scene, to the stress of it. As I walk past pretending not to notice and fall into a hushed silence straight after seeing her tits. What is it about this city, about the lack of attention towards humanity. About the abruptness, about all this mess. I wonder and yet I still haven't figured it out. What it is I love about this place and why, when my mind suffers, why, when I can't see the wood for the trees, do I run here every time? Only to realise that it doesn't feel that fine, it doesn't feel that ok to be here on my own, even for a few days. So that I would prefer to just be without. Without a brain. Without feeling again. Watching that woman I glazed by, watching her as she filled another vile full of blood. The streets are lined with distain here, a stranger clammers at the door. I stutter and fall to the floor. I worry. Is it because I'm alone? Like really fucking alone and I do it to myself. I know I do, so that every time it happens I turn around and look to blame but can find only me, me again. And again and again. On repeat. I am my own defeat. I can't rely on anyone? I really can't rest my head, can't hold your hand? Can't ask anyone to do the directions or to find the restaurant or to make me coffee while I rest in bed? This solitary life means only that all my time is taken up with me. So that now I ask for nothing, I talk to no one, I slither through a city undone.

There are marks made. Under the skin of this thin veneer. Other lives that have passed quietly, gently here. And I text you questioning again if I'm enough. Will I ever be enough for someone to love me? To consider me as I consider them. Obviously, I message this with a heap of 'lolz' and 'hahahas'. Only I'm not laughing, I'm crying, and, wondering why being single makes me feel less. Less of a person, less of an asset, less of an authentic version. When I love, I love hard. I say. Only you don't respond. So that now, I think maybe loving hard can only be seen with a negative lens. A shield of complete besotted determination.

Someone who looks really het, is texting me. In fact ghosting me and then popping up every now again in my feed with a voice note and an indeterminacy I should probably heed. And I genuinely am concerned that she's straight which makes me what? Her life sounds like a life I could drown in. So I'm here, thinking do we all need warnings? Like instead of positive affirmations perhaps we need to list our weaknesses: prone to disappearance. Introvert, unlikely to commit. Constantly looking for the one, to replace that one that they lost, or in fact never really had because it's all about ownership. And how can anyone really claim they have had anyone else? How can they? Because really we are all alone. Only now I don't want to come home. Don't want to see those familiar faces of people I invested in and now can't really be bothered to let drain me. I want to run away. I want to be far from here. I want to be far from here. Just not on my own.

There are some people who sit comfortably. Legs akimbo, arms outstretched, feet planted firmly. There are some people who take up space. Chatter crescendoes and turn up the tempo, blam. They are here. And it doesn't matter if my silent, queer body slips by them, or slides along tickling their underside. It doesn't matter what time of day it is or whether you blow them a surreptitious high five, a fleeting kiss. It doesn't matter. Because they are organised. They are who you want to be when you're being watched from the street. They exude confidence. So much so that the gallery becomes home. Along these walls is a different sort of familiar. Heavy the loneliness that crushes existence out there, but in here, in here I have purpose. And they might see me, out there, those people oozing whatever vitamins they took for breakfast and wonder what is this malnourished soul doing in here? Wandering around this city driven by existential questioning. What is it I do with myself in those hours when in between the here and now there are just spaces that fill the time. Let it pass, let it pass.

>Enter the concrete field and turn left.< >It will be straight in front of you.< And I abandon google maps. So that now, as I turn this way and that. He's ready to give up, but part of me loves a mystery, part of me loves an adventure. Every part of me wants to be able to tell this story to you. So that sometimes I'm no longer living for me. But maybe when he starts playing a washing machine and singing into that plastic tin, maybe it is. For me, I mean. And when that sound wraps around my legs and sends shivers up my spine and I reach deep and try and relax in time with the music. I think. I think about all of this and I think I'm almost done. I think that maybe waiting is becoming pointless. And so I wrap you up and place you high on a shelf, I wrap you up and place you somewhere else, if only to conserve what's left of my mental health.