Staccato car horns, the soft murmur of junkies and the constant threat of violent shaven caterpillars; these are the end days in the grime of Chatham, ladies and gentlemen. This place is full of morons and inbreds born of a failed dockyard; the drifting scum that are making it home and burning cars to light their way. I’m quietly watching through the slit of a window, my life is caught between my fingers; trying to beat the burning ash of the cigarette to the butt. Aimlessly, I am floating about the house wallowing in a meaty, half-cooked depression; chasing the fragment of a ghost of a chance across the fizzled electrics of the internet – my only meaningful contact with the outside world.
So... You know.
Life’s pretty damn peachy.