My eyes barely seperate as I lift myself up. To the window. I light a rolly. Nightmares from last night's weed. But it is not really a nightmare it is a memory of better times.

Hillview the place was called. An estate. My better self, a young tryer.

Coming home from school with my friends. A nice sunny joint. Meet up with the girlfriend later. I don't care about my posture. My teeth are white, all of them. I am in the Socialist Workers party. Not just an opinion but an outlet and the sun, the sun.

The window creeks in the cold. I look down and the rolly is gone. I light another and I will not lie. I am crying.

Because this nightmare once existed as a dream ignored. I wipe my eyes and comfort the olfactory section of my brain with the knowledge that there are plenty of decent diseases to catch, that rogue Moat types are always looking for fresh faces. that trains move very fast.

And in this state of self convincing, as I light another rolly and begin to feel slightly better, I see a pidgeon poking at a still wriggling worm. This is true.

The bitter timing of multiversal chaos.

That worm with its guts ripped out like green mince as it watches the bird consume its insides right in front of it. That worm.

How sorry I am for that worm, the world and a grasp less for hiding.

What nightmare it has in life.

What Hillview it enjoys dies every time the bird comes down again and again, armless and almost choking, to stalk the last of the beating structure. The wriggling stops.

A cat.

I notice it not too far away, waiting. Then

moving slow one shoddy claw at a time across the silent grass. Almost there.

I close the window.

Because no nightmare compares to knowing that every living object exists only for the annihilation of every other species.

Everything must kill. Must kill everything else.

I cannot look and I certainly cannot go back to sleep.

I need to get a gun

for the bird,

for the cat,

for Hillview.