Up in my flat, it sounds like people getting drunk, screaming and laughing and car alarms going off downstairs. I imagine it smells like food, like barbeque, and smoke. Maybe it smells like boys, that intoxicating scent of dopamine before you lose your head and do something stupid opposite-***-related. It probably smells like the alcohol I haven’t tasted except in my mother’s wine chicken since I was fifteen.
My friend, J-Han, said to me, once, am I sure this is what I want to do, don't you want to live, are you not young?
No, I am born old, and my daddy agrees, and everyone says, that fools live happier lives, so why are you so serious — you need to loosen up — you need to let things go — don't think so much — relax — shut up, shutupshutupshutup
...
I am lonely in my flat but in this large complex they built, everybody stands in the lifts and nobody talks, and we are all strangers, and I am someone who comes and goes between school and locks up before leaving on Fridays and repeating it on Sunday.