I had it all worked out, and the only thing I needed was money.

And for the first time, but not the last, we reached that stage in the relationship when everything I did annoyed her, and the only ways forward seemed to be to collapse in on myself, hide in the closet or under the bed, or simply cease to exist.

I looked back, once again, on my failures with women.

Sometimes I must remember that words and music can be better than drugs.

I found out too late that I was not a serious person, and had lived a ridiculous life.

The world has never needed you, a situation that will not improve with age.

Of course I'm a legend in my own mind. Why wouldn't I be the main character in my own quiet, kitchen-sink story?

It's dull, but compelling. No plot and all story, a journey to the center of the self, obsessed with moments empty and alone.

Fifteen years and I'll be old, if not elderly. I've got shoes older than that, T-shirts.

Add another 15, if I'm lucky, and we're really getting up there.

Thirty years, say. More than enough for a life.

All I have to do is live long enough to get away with it, because there'll be no judgement that matters after death.

I feel bored, then remember I have around 2,000 books in my apartment, mostly unread and all once of interest.

What have I done with my time?

I wake up early, make coffee, sit at my desk and make no money, simply because there's no immediate path to profit from this position, and thus no validation from the world outside my head as to how my time is spent.

I have a place to live, food to eat, access to healthcare should I need it, and death as the promise of relief from all hope, worry and toil drawing closer every day, my life rolled up behind me like a rug, unrolling before me like the same.

I enjoy myself, regardless, and feel the magic within, aware that none of this matters.