Anger and sadness and vomit

Thursday April 27

Last day before payday of the masses.

It shows.

No money about.

I make £20 all night.

I pay for the inner tubes I owe, cut my losses and go home.

The night bus is against me.

Willesden Green.

Damn.

People are angry.

Real angry tonight.

The city is half empty.

Those out are really drunk.

Red eyes, bleary, glazed. Zombie-staggers, slumped against street bins, slobbering over cigarettes, like that will save them or sober them.

It is really sad to see.

Tomorrow they will be happy.

Payday before the long weekend.

And they will do the same tomorrow.

And Saturday. And Sunday.

Tonight it seems that people, most people, work to drink, to drug, to drunk, to drown their lives.

I look at the young people falling in the street and think of Michael.

They seem real unhappy at the end of the evening.

Falling over, sat on the floor by bus stops, staggering and bumping into each other and swearing.

This is their reward.

This is slavery.

It makes me real sad.

This is what the majority has become.

Really sad.

I feel tears in my eyes.

A Spanish girl in a pink and grey striped hoody smiles at me. She is sober. Or looks it.

I try to smile back.

She seems to sense what I sense.

Her smile drops.

I walk.

Charing Cross Road is spattered with pools of vomit every few metres.

I pass two ambulances and see Anita, the wheelchair-bound transvestite. She is covered in vomit and calls the three paramedics “cunts”.

In Kingsbury it is quiet, dark and silent.

This morning I am glad I live here.

The pink cherry blossom erupts from every tree lining the road.

Incredible.

Birds tweet and twitter.

Dawn is coming.

I smile.

I am home.

There is a can of beer.

I write and smoke.

And I listen to System of a Down.

But I listen to the slow tracks.

Operatic Arabic anthems.

Sit and think.

And write.

Salvation.

I am home.