booktowrite

White blue days drift rapidly past as I gaze out of my window and sip upon a drink. The drink gradually blurs reality as I see my neighbours walk by. A couple and one child. They look into my window and see me as I take a sip and I see the look of pity/fear/judgement in their eyes. It makes me feel better. Their house is up for sale and I hope that two Suicide Girls move in next door. But, sadly, the couple I saw looking at the house were the classic Guildford couple; conservative, clean, neat, wealthy the desperation to start a family shone brightly from their eyes. I wonder if they get a discount for the hermit that lives in the house next door. He writes, he reads, he has a degree upon the wall, he listens to punk rock and gets drunk but he never ever speaks. Nothing different ever just the perpetuation of tradition. I need to move to America where one retains the right to self-destruct.