Sitting in recline on an old armchair I didn't have to pay for, feet suspended on a small table I paid maybe too much to have. Behind me, a painting by Francis Bacon, but not that one you're thinking of, the other one, with a lot of aquamarine on a field of petrol, which suggests I am drowning and maybe things are out of control. If you’re easily seduced by symbolism, that is.

Sipping from a designer cup, reminiscent of brutalism’s throws, overpriced organic tea which tastes exactly like your wet dreams of deep misunderstanding, namesake: Euphoria. I have been restless for days, restless like legs, like antelopes in the Sahara in the face of lions, lions, lion's den: my home. Flicking, no, scrolling through the pages of this novel I fail to see the ending; unlike before, I can no longer judge the climb to climax by the remaining bulk of pages, confused, confusing, aren't we all?

I still miss it, of course I do, but I miss acres of myself more, it's time to get replanting. The tea's flavour intensifies as I get closer to the bottom, unlike this story which gets more dense but somehow less flavourful each scroll; I realise: if this relation were a ship, I'd jump it. More controlled, more controlling, grasping at straws, the dread intensifies. Is that a mouse I see or a life buoy? Thoughts to start another, could prove disappointing in 100 new ways, just like continuing to read could come with its own set of downfalls. Down falls a book from the shelf, suspending my suspension of disbelief.
Was that stain always there?

Still, there is hope, the chapters add up, the characters have depth and mystery, there’s parts to still unfold, untold caresses in dark bars, dark furniture to balance out old walls. The book is silent, we read alone, all interruptions welcome. My feet grow numb, moving the toes a bit, a little bit, regaining feeling, somehow feeling one with the architecture now. The ending is surprising in its nature, because you couldn’t gauge its coming, but not in content. It tastes familiar, a bit like that outlandish tea.

Paradoxical feelings, now with state of the art parallax scroll.
Last line: “It's about a gut feeling, that doesn't have words to explain”
Ellipsis of the full stop, the ending is postponed.

We read alone, but we don’t write alone.