Day 67: Lying around pitying myself. The heating in this place is ridiculous, I’m either producing icicles or I’m peeling all my skin off in a bid to stop sweating all the water out of my body. I’ve noticed a recurring theme in my blogs: the notion of ripping my skin off. I’m not into all that, I swear. “Over-active imagination”. That’s what my mum told our neighbours when I ran out of the house last summer screaming, “AL...

Day 64: Shedding my skin and fucking crawling out of it. I can’t hack this place any more, I long for grass. Burn these buildings and walls and grow grass, and then the naughty grass. So we can all get high as the sky and not give a fuck who falls to the ground. Not give a fuck if I fall to the ground. I won’t. There is no meaning any more, no light at the end of the dank tunnel, no big celebration party, no sudden epipha...

You need not know my age, my name and you need not know where I come from. You should, however, be familiar with my brief account. The briefest would read; I fell in love. However, that would not express wholly the intense passion which I fell captive to in the year of ‘99. In a charming café, miles away from home, I effortlessly recall each moment I spent with Dakota Roe. Not one wasted. I can confess that I cling cautio...