I wake up after a night on the piss in a house I don’t remember. The rug is covered in what look like corpses in body bags. I check. They’re breathing; turns out they’re just pale-skinned goths in black dresses and dark overcoats and leather boots. I have to walk down to the dairy to get some ciggies and work out where I am and what buses are nearby. Worcester Street, it turns out. The city centre. Flat streets where people scrap in the middle of the road outside pubs. High rises leering down. Needles in the gutters.
I come back and hang out and smoke ciggies and sip instant coffee with no milk. The goths need another flatmate to make rent, they mention. We agree I may as well hang out permanently. We get wasted and I spray-paint Bill Hicks on the wall of the lounge with a can I’ve stolen
