your tragedy is hardly a tragedy, whereas mine leaps ahead to welcome you. Your clothes are ragged and mine shines.
When the walls turn around to talk, leer and drink a cuppa, you are polite. I am distressed. Our clothes don't match like our minds, unlike our teeth.
It's a collaboration, she says, enunciating each letter. She says wow and whoa and oh dear god. I lisp. She believes that monsters hide under the flowery tablecloth, and she can pet them.
I see her poltergeist cartwheeling. She carries my cat and steals the backpack I used to love. Old is gold, she sneers.
Okay, so you drink whiskey? Okay, so you hate Indian style toilets?
You sneak inside loos and stay rooted for fifteen minutes, shutting out the constant buzz. Washing your hands, scraping the filth from underneath your nails.
Your life is a random illustration. Detailed intricate lines, beautiful colours, but when you look at it closely, a little hollow.
Agree and buy me a sandwich.
