6th September 2008

Since the inception of The Bunker, i.e. since I gave up using the kitchen, moved a fridge into my room and adopted the toilets of the BP garage across the road as my bathroom, I've experienced a peculiar and forceful internalising - I exist solely either at work or within The Bunker, everything else is phantasmal, fleeting, The insomnia eats me up, last night, lying in bed awake for four hours, I navigated myself into a serene space of motorik contemplation, systems rotating rolodex around my hyperactive brain, the quetiapine wedging me in this booth between tirelessness and gross fatigue, and still the melodies fanfare their geometries without relent. I'm a headcase. It's high time this boy wrote a symphony, Herr Doktor.

Adolescent, prima-donna self-indulgent, ego-stricken, playpen-umbilicus, middle-class angst-ridden, foot-stomping, indignantly-snorting, solipsistic, rabid bitch-hound, dragged its clumsy, kickboxing hooves around the ballpool, blinded by itself, charmless, and without humility, it still believes it can transcend the human, hence, it cripples and whithers with every faulty jolt of scuppered idealism.

I will always observe my impulses foremost, as these at least, however injurious in th short-term, are true and tangibly my own. I will not deviate from the flare of these beacons for any creature. For most this is beyond idle reckoning; a given, but a few will come to learn and reconcile that my trajectory is singular - if I choose to carve off my arm one afternoon, there is an inarguably legitimate reason for me to do so - the rationale exists on my plane.

I found a kilogram of heroin in the dumb waiter at work today - the counter staff had mistaken it for half-digested falafel - I hid it in the recycling bins until I'd closed the kitchen down and everyone except me had vacated the premises. I found twenty-three envelopes in the office, stuffed a palm of brown in each envelope, sealed them, crammed them into my rucksack, and left, having pocketed the majority for myself. En route home, I deposited envelopes through various letterboxes - taking a circuitous route, so as to create an irregularity were they to be mapped by the police, whome I phoned anonymously from a public box upon completing my circuit. Tomorrow morning, the headline of the local rag will read : Santa Claus is Coming to Brown - the police had apparently raided all of the houses whose addresses I gave, save for one, a chiselled, mercenary ex-fuckwit called Robin Goodfellow, who it is thought necked his whole provision of H in one sitting. His was the last deposit made, and likely the heaviest dose. Having used my copy of The Argus as a cone in which to smoke my designated does of smack, I trawled round to his yard, hammered on the door, and was admitted to the house by a stern-faced unhydrated harridan in sweatpants and a string vest, bath pearls dangling from her blue-rinse headlocks like eyes of sputum on a lilac tree. She extended a weathered, three-fingered-claw, I grasped it non-commitally, and we had disingenuous, lazy sex on the stairwell. I fisted her sugar puff cunt without removing my knuckle duster, spat on her one good tit, threw a two-euro coin at her and waddled, trousers-round-my-ankles through to the kitchen, where I found a beautiful, gleaming boy whom I presumed to be Robin. He mirrored my every movement, except in his reflection each reposing was deft, fluid, as though his body were composed of a single, co-ordinated muscle, divine elegance, super-divine geometry. I pulled off my boots, kicked off my trousers. He resembled a boy made of light, an effervescent, shifting leonine creature, all smiles, radiance and warmth. His navel, a smooth, gagging clitoris, swallowed my arm with genteel ease, and enraptured in a New Warmth, I kissed him on the lips, tasted the residual heroin on his tongue, which penetrated my mouth, elongating inside my head, extending down my throat, into my abdomen, whose sack of rancid organs it tickled with the delicacy of a pin-prick. I ejaculated over his legs, which closed over mine, we fused, skin putrifying to a silicon mousse, our flesh bonding to a resin; up to my shoulder in his navel, our legs entwined and gelled into an erect mass, our mouths dissolving into one, he swallowed me into him, and once under the diaphanous waterfall of his skin, I could make out vague features of the kitchen through the most taut patches; I condensed inside of him, until a mere essence, the energy of his being was that of pure white heat orgasm, and I, assimilated into him, was an element in this perpetual orgasmic reactor; an intimacy to which I'd never before yielded. While inside of him, I loved him more beyond any comprehensible notion of the term, and together, we'd commit to the most inane and ballbreaking chores, without so much as tiring, wilting, or doubting, and this energy kept us alive indefinitely. Every time he came into a young boy's body, a little of me trickled out, embedded in the algebra of his semen, and I knew, as a densely-codified meme, I would be born in their minds and souls, replicated gradually, a viral takeover of their identities, systematically eradicating any semblance of their former character map, infecting them with the same fetishes, intensities of appetite, and hunger for collective species annihilation as myself; and the more boys he fucked, and the younger they were, the more readily I'd be disseminated, to the extent that when they reached their mid-twenties, I'd have latitudinally fathered an entire generation of Darwinianarchists, Enigmaterialists, and other such lowlife fucking scum-pockets, that the pseuds, the squares, the commuters, the cyber-evaneglists, the stockbrokers, the docile lovers, would be instantly usurped and rendered so much redundant gelatinous chunks. And for this seismic political insurrection, I'd have sacrificed only the whollest and absolutest love that even the pinnacle of deities could ever have imagined.

After I left Robin's, I folded the tissue on which he'd written his phone number, into three and jammed it in my jeans pocket. The effects of the heroin began to wane, so I punched myself around the head a couple of times, collapsed by a dustbin, and lights out.