I'm the intrigued
man, peeling back the curtain and standing at the window not only to
look at you out there in the street, but also to better show you what
it's like living in here. I'm opening the curtains wide both to
wonder what the hell you're doing out there in the frost and mist and
also to show you the stains on the walls from when Seryn threw that
chocolate pudding at Ed, and Ed got scared.
Yes, the lightbulb
is smashed, but we have ten boxes of matchsticks left. I stick them
in my ears and nose and light them at night to keep a constant glow –
replacing them as they burn out. It's like spinning plates. I'd smell
my burning nose hair if I could, but when I inhale the wood goes up
and jams into my brain.
But that light gets
us through the time after the sun disappears around the side of the
house.
...until the
natural light comes back again, and you stand outside in your coat
and fur-lined boots, peering into our ground floor den, trying to
make out the shadows behind the tattered curtains and see how five
men can live in such a space for so damn long. All you see are bodies
draped and immobile like Greek sculptures, and plates and bowls built
up to look like rock with the slow, sedimentary deposits of cheap
baked beans and sauces and chips and a multi-coloured slew of dried
on condiments.
The whole of the
house, inside and out, is covered in molluscs and snails and slugs
and woodlice and ants and grass grows everywhere, even indoors, like
new life in old men's ears.
When Trewin says I
can sleep I sometimes dream that I open the curtain and you are stood
there as every morning - but this time with a small, blue and white
box in an outstretched hand.
I yelp, and the
band gather around the window like cats, pressing our faces up
against the glass and each squirming for the best view.
You have brought a
lightbulb for our room.
Ed lets you in, and
Seryn stands on James's shoulders to screw the lightbulb in.
Ed clears the
plates away.
You sit down and we
talk to you and make you a cup of tea. It's a dark morning, so we're
happy of the lightbulb. It's also cold, and we all drink tea with the
steam rising up and occasionally hold the hot cups against our faces.
The woodlice go
away, and the room starts to breath with the colour of comfort.
Trewin asks if
you'd like to hear some of the new bits and pieces of music.
You say yes, and he
starts to play it, and we all start to dance in the room that is now
so warm, and clean, and bright, and dry.
We have the
greatest time, and when I look at you I see you are so happy you came
by.
But then more often
than not I am awoken by my head smashing against the corner of a
desk. I had slipped into careless sleep for a mere microsecond. A
match burns its way to my ear lobe as Trewin chastises me for my
nodding off. We have been choosing a method of audio compression for
seventeen hours now. I huddle into my unwashed blanket and light
another match and put it into my nose so everyone can live.
Why please can't
someone please just go to the shop and buy a lightbulb?
Tim
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