It’s there, as a mortal force, making you do things. Go on get a job, go on find a flat. Find somebody else. Put them in the flat. Make them stay. Get a toast. Go to work. Get on a bus. Look at your boss. Say fuck. Sit down. Pick up the thing. Go blank. Scream internally. Go home. Listen to the radio. Look at the other person. Think, “Why? Why did this happen?” Go to bed. Lie awake at night. Get up. Feel groggy. Put the things on. Your clothes, whatever they are called. Close the door. Into work. Same thing, same people again. It’s real. It is happening to you. Home again. Sit. Radio. Dinner. Hmm. Gardening. Gardening. Gardening. Death.