I wanted to make money, to survive, thrive and be seen to have worth because of some inherent and somewhat unique ability, not just because I was a cog in the machine. And for me this had to come down to my own words, to the magic of laying the line.

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?