On the boat and feeling hungover, tired, and just plain old. Reacting to the poems on the walkway to the ferry. They’re old now and were never new, same old crap. Fuck you for not fucking me you fucking dried up fucking cunt. That was going through my head last week, but I didn’t mean it. I’ve just been battling bad thoughts in my head, feeling frustrated about my time in bed. Or the lack of it. Shit shit shit. Another week – or two and a half days. Oh, when will I get a job I can do.