Fuck. Maybe there’s nothing to tell. But there is. The last dance. That was yesterday, and if it weren’t for Cliff and my tailwind and Fi, I’d be done. Every single line hurts. The hangover is rotten; everything in my head is garbage. I don’t even have to go to work, and yet the woman yells at me. Whatever — I deserve it, again. The fucking cat.
As I scrape myself off the studio flat floor, I make it this far: with tunnel vision, I focus on the kitchen. There’s salvation there — an omelette from eggs and milk and the main thing: Fi’s morning cocktail. While I make it: one part orange, one part lime, one part lemon, sprinkled with turmeric and Indian chilli. Vodka and pepper are my stupid additions.
No vodka, no pepper — I drink the shit flat. I eat the omelette, something’s missing: Fi, or B. Or the salt, fuck. I make coffee, look for vodka, and find coffee. My hands and feet are shaking. I hate this shitty world, I’d choke it if I could, but I can’t — my friend died today. 09/17 — that’s his day. You wake up, the heart is silent, it wants you. We don’t want to get through this day awake; I want to sleep or fucking die. Last dance, Stigi.
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