In A Day.
God I hate bagpipes. Even played well they sound like shit. It should be illegal to induce headaches. Damn old people encouraging it. If you give him money he will keep doing it! They know this, they just want the rest of us to suffer. Look at them all; shuffling along in a silver sea of liver spots to the sound of the bagpipes. If I wasn’t already depressed, I definitely would be now.
She squeezes my hand and her tears squelch between my fingers. If only I could squeeze back. I’m glad she’s happy. I’ve not seen her in a while, I wonder if she’s changed much, if she’s smiling. I hope she’s smiling, wish I could brush her tears away.
But, trying to form these notions into some kind of coherent thought is like turning television static into words. It’s a bright beige fuzz of understanding, echoing white, or beige, noise. It’s almost a channel, the place in between. It reminds me of attempting to hold treacle in your hand. The idea or concept is almost solid, but it slowly drips away just as you begin to grasp it. Though, some of it remains, some fragments of the idea stick. It’s just not quite solid enough to hold.
I can’t decide on the last song! The pressure of it is too much for me, I can’t handle such a responsibility on my night out. I hand the burden of the last song over to my new friend, my new friend…
‘My name’s John, by the way.’
My new friend Jack.