Number 14

I rushed back home on the willpower of a couple of tired legs. The steaming lights of the club were hitching my yellow eyes.
Did you know?
I rushed back home because people were distracting me, Nigel Farage does not have the colour of your eyes.
Did you know that?
I rushed back home in a cold empty night, ignoring the monsters on my bed, collapsing on the sofa, crumpling under the blanket, leaving the light on so that I can project you sitting on the armrest.
I rushed back home because you were presumptuously filling all my actions with your imaginary presence, I was moving stiff picturing you next to me, and so I precipitated in my calm orange vanilla room in order for you to have the space you need, the space you have, inside me.

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