Despite everything, then.

Despite of everything, every night of every month spent asking for something different, here I sit. I sit surrounded by the mould on my walls, stains in the cups, ink on the sheets, cuts on my feet and nothing in my head but concerns over a bad taste in my mouth.

I think we are all in accordance; the overused headphones, the creased work pages, the battered guitar cases and their string-winding children, the hopeful gouache and the hopeless post-it notes, the books neglected and the texts whored by my desirous eyes. Each of us knows that this is how we all are now; waiting for the click. Waiting for the latch to come off and for the new changes, who will come flooding in with stories from their journey.

Crikey, it'll be good when it comes.