I regularly ask myself what have I achieved in a year and no thoughts come near to the ones I should tell myself, like where did my grace go? how did I get here? was that house right to rent? wasted money that got spent on what?
Existence is tiring, though it's all we've got and nothing more, ideas yet to be printed, screenplays yet to be tested, theory's waiting to be put to the test and laid to rest in a textbook in a classroom, in a school.
We'll end up in creases and creaks in the chair at ten to 2 with misty eyes, tired though theyβve seen shadows turn to nights, streets to lamplight, socks to feet at the bottom of bed sheets.
*I'm from red bricks and Hulme backstreet corners; Manchester born and Wakefield bound, stuck somewhere in between.