First blink of the morning and it is the same sticky panic inside my humid ribcage; fear frolicking in that place where the heart beats sluggishly with just enough regularity to maintain existence; a sick, shadowy, sentient phantom spreadeagled in a oily pool surrounded by clouds of midges; above you rise the spectres of unlived, unloved dreams in the hissing, empty skies.

My friend Moby delivers flyers to pubs and clubs around Brighton. We attend the same university and we both study painting. He’s gone to Safeway’s to get lunch - a baguette and some Brie probably. Anyway, we both end up sat outside in the quadrangle of grass and cement in the centre of the university building. I skip lunch for a can of coke and cigarettes instead.

Get dressed now; all in black. Choose shirt, trousers. Try on different combinations. Maybe the blue shirt with the twin-colour pin-stripes and the high collar? No. Makes me look stern, meaty. Like I've got a smaller neck or something. No. Throw that away. The safe option is the neutral one. All black.

The train stopped at Ealing Broadway. A black man got on the train with a suitcase. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. He looked anxious. And he was staring straight at me. He sat down with his case. Stood up again and looked out of the window. The window was misty with old fingerprints. He pressed the side of his hand to the window to see out, adding his own smudge to the pane. Fuckin’ h...

I wake up and scratch my chest. It’s sore. I pull back the duvet and look at myself. There's a crudely stitched up Y incision. I get out of bed. Carefully. I don’t want the Y incision to break or snap and for everything to fall out.