instead of sleeping, i'm sat behind my bed, playing whimsical songs on guitar. the full moon shines through the curtain and makes my feet itch and i know i need to get out of here. i'm stuck in a town where i know exactly what bus stop the "chav mums with buggies" get on at and that the big issue dealer probably has more money than i do and the colours seem to have been sucked out of everywhere that was once bright and vibrant to me and spat out some grey monotone-like-shade that hurts my eyes.
i take a few seconds to wonder how he is doing.
this is a place where people have blind idols and not enough sight to see beyond the tips of their noses, and where you're ridiculed for having black skin, or a name like moses. where the "cultured" groups think they know everything of writers like simone de beauvoir just because they saw her grave on a schooltrip to france, and best of all these are the people we should be getting to know. irony just bit the hand that feeds.
i've considered just staying in my room, and looking out of my window at the road to stockholm, but i just made that up.
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