So it’s true, then.
Time really does accelerate as you enter the latter decades of your life. Standing here, on the other side of grief and trauma, I’m sucked deeper and faster into the mundane: a relentless flush down a very slick s-bend. Continue reading
The addict in the hoodie wanders up and down the dual carriageway I used to live on. His hoodie is black, his skin almost transparent. Continue reading
Eventually, alcohol will kill you. Drink enough, for long enough, and you’ll die. It’s as simple as that. Continue reading
(c) George Hodan
I stand at the intersection, waiting for the light to change. A car comes towards me. I hesitate. For a split-second I want to step forward. I imagine myself doing this: putting my foot out as if to trip the oncoming car. Continue reading
Separation. Agreement. Two words that don’t belong next to each other. Two bifurcating lines that somehow fuse together further down the path. Really, there is something fundamentally oxymoronic about the phrase.
To be honest, I’m stuck on the agreement part.
Sight, sound, smell, taste, touch. That’s the order, right? It is for me, anyway, making “smell” the third sense. And not just a lowly third sense either, because something about this sense is transcendent – it has the power to link up with your sixth sense.
And if, like the lady above, you find something rotten in the air, chances are it’s indicative of an existential decay of some sort. Or, in some cases, it could just be a fart. Continue reading
One lonely robot. (c) Married to an Alcoholic
It’s 5am. In the past three hours, I’ve reached over three times trying to find her little toes. Because by this time, she’s padded over the landing and crept into my bed because she’s scared.
And each time I reach over, I remember she’s not here. Continue reading