Standing in the shower coughing I contemplated that I had
lost the touch, the hunger. That I had given in to middle aged spread even
though I was only twenty but said I was twenty two. The flat across the hall
had been broken into and smashed to pieces and I hadn't written a word about
it, nor had I written about my new home, or being in love, or realising that
despite this I was alone. I hadn't written about anything but what I needed to
buy from the shop or read for class for a long time, barring the shitty poetry I
planned to delete from my hard drive as soon as I got out of the shower. I didn't
slam my fist into the wall or burst into tears or curse the tiled ceiling at
this realisation, nor did I jump from under the water and run down the hall to
find a pen and paper, still wet and naked and never caring a bit. No. At this
realisation, I simply coughed.
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