Bowie spun round and round. His voice pulsing through the room as the poison pulsed through my damaged, failing body. The beat kept me focused on nothing but the music. The rise and fall of Ziggy Stardust and of my chest. My lungs gasping for air through lips mouthing his words. Words I'd mouthed many times before. I was in love with the music my faithful mistress fucking for forty minutes. My heart raced but I was still, fighting the urge to bounce off the walls. My senses felt heightened like i was hyper-aware, even though it was dark all the furniture scattered around the room was in sharp focus, the sheets on my bed felt crisp to touch and the spiders from mars were crystal clear. I felt calmer when we got to Suffragette City and I was ready to commit Rock and Roll Suicide.
I was neither high nor low just still, wondering about the equilibrium and precarious a fulcrum it was balanced on.
My mind drifted to the back streets of Clerkenwell on a mild Sunday morning where I felt at peace. My back to St Paul's, I took in the architecture, the skyline created and then turned my head to study the flagstone and tarmac and everything else that made up the surface I pounded. The same as every other street in London but the cracked and broken flags and the yellow lines felt more real here like they'd been trodden upon by those more deserving of life. They left a permanent invisible mark which I'd accidentally stumbled across. It fascinated me no end. I would sit on the curb and breathe it all in trying to suck up the remnants of deserved lives maybe hoping I deserved to live too.
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