The TV beams into there world, full today, muttering is immense. I sit and drink black coffee, thumbing a Roger Ebert 98 film guide my only source of entertainment, there is an old man that catches my eye for his resemblance of Terry Pratchett he's playing with himself. Another man talks in an endless stream of consciences to himself. I pick out pub, Jane Austin's skull, his brother, his mother - I stop listening. My arm is a infectious festering balloon five stitches have come loose. Jeremy Kyle screams shit to the early risers me included in my blue pyjamas, I'm tempted to cover the screen in boiling hot coffee but don't of course, I return to bed.
I lie on the fireproof slab like mattress and stare at the white wall for nine hours, in case meaning happens.
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