Please. Don’t. Leave. Me. Lonely. Dear. City.

Like a bunch of silverfish caught in a net, the city shimmers busily beneath me. I want to take a giant hand and catch all these uneven lights and crush them. I want to be God.

I watch numbly as the milk boils over. It sounds like sudden rain when it does that. I quickly shut off the gas when I see it spilling on to the counter. I wish it would rain. I wish it would rain like crazy.

I search for stories in the newspapers. In the city section. In the technology section. I make up a story of a lonely man in Japan who invents a talking robot and programmes it to be his friend. Then I don’t know what really happens. Something about almost falling in love with a girl from another country. All my stories are essentially unrequited love stories.

The house is completely empty. The curtains look dirty and need washing. The laundry basket’s overflowing. There are these strange flat worm-like creatures camouflaged within flakes of peeling paint on the walls. I don’t like them one bit. They look like flattened lizard shit. I don’t like them because they pretend not to be there and no-one knows exactly what they do. They are sly and ugly.

When I take a bath, I notice a pigeon staring at me with its red unblinking eyes from the window. Do I fascinate you mister Pigeon? You’re about the only one. I shoo it away.

Work is strangely empty as well. The dog has come inside to enjoy the air conditioning. She lies curled up in a corner by the stairs like a Danish pastry, dreaming and twitching intermittently.

I don’t want to think today. I want to go home by six and watch Grey’s Anatomy with Maggi and mustard. I want to revel in the drama of other people I don’t know and will hopefully never know.

It’s hot, so I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt. The T-shirt is weird, because it has these weird air bumps in strange places. Like I have a huge wart there. I remember in school, this girl who used to sit in front of me had these air bubbles at the back of her uniform and I would be fascinated by them. I’d wonder if she had a warty back, or whether it was just air. But I was too afraid to touch it. What if it really was a wart? Maybe people are thinking the same about me now. But I’m pretty sure they haven’t noticed. I’m contemplating my second cup of coffee. I smoke too much and I drink too much these days. It’s beginning to show on my face. I should quit.

There is a Murakami book I just don’t seem to be getting over with. I’ve read three quarters of it and just can’t do the rest. My life seems more and more like that book. A string of useless everyday trivia strung together by surreal imagery and verse. But it really is just trivia at the end of it. At least initially.

The past few weeks, so many things have happened. But when I try to recollect these thoughts, they don’t seem like much. When I repeat these stories, I feel myself drowning in the drone of my own voice. It’s so bland. It’s like trying to sell a rabbit in the hat trick in Vegas. I hear other people’s stories instead. And I forget I ever had one in the first place.

Right now I’m bored of writing this.