Sometimes I’m the simplest creature of all time. Sometimes I’m standing drenched in sweat in the kitchen eating all the tomato sauce straight from the pan, long before the pasta is done, and yowling. Sometimes it’s the smell of seven cloves of garlic. Sometimes it’s the cheapest supermarket olives and the drool, just because. Sometimes, somehow, it tastes so good. Sometimes I am distracted by googling buttsex and googling my own name and using the internet as a portal to try and alchemise time. Sometimes I want to invite everyone round to wallow in my own stench, when my stench is rotting mangoes and barbecue and shocking even to my nose. Sometimes I decide against this. Sometimes I’m delirious by the prospect of solitude, masturbation, and my own record collection. Sometimes the bpm of all the songs I’m listening to are better than the bpm of all the songs you’re listening to. Sometimes a storm hits. Sometimes the streets reek of plantations and of swampland and of heady, cunty summer. Sometimes I stand on my balcony naked, alone, and cackling. Sometimes I stand on my balcony, my tongue in your ear. Sometimes you’re embarrassed about swooning in front of the boys, though you can never help that expressive face. Sometimes I’m a ravenous gulping beast who devours everything in her path. Sometimes I stop worrying about the emails left unanswered and the tasks left unticked—sometimes I smother myself in gin, lube and neon. Sometimes it doesn’t matter what I say, what’s important is that I let an evening seep into my bones and enjoy it. Sometimes I repeat myself. Sometimes things grind to a halt and there is just me, left there, grinning on the couch, as simple as a hammer without any nails.