I woke up this morning and my head was pulsating like I had huffed gasoline in my sleep. Breathing, inhaling, exhaling, straining, as if there was a creature inside my brain ready to burst out of my skull and run amok in the streets. I took some Ibuprofen and a glass of Welch's and the creature died, its body disappearing. Good. I wouldn't have to use a shovel.

I picked up the note you left on the fridge, which proclaimed that you wished to meet me at the library at 2:00. As I got dressed and brushed my teeth, I stuffed the box of Ibuprofen into my pocket just in case. I have a proclivity of doing this even though I'm not entirely warmed to the idea of swallowing pills dry. I wonder what it would be like to die in an earthquake, glancing over at a forest of paper towels planted the night before.

I check the clock on my car radio. It's almost 8:00. I'm going to be late for work.

I arrive at work and my boss immediately goes chimp-shit when he makes eye contact with my appearing figure. He stumbles up to me, smoldering, and goes off about how I take too long to do certain things. As he says these things I start to imagine black tendrils slinking up and down the walls and ceiling, slithering across the floor and wrapping around his ankles. I shake out of the delusion as he raises his voice. I leave, retreating to a thankfully empty parking garage.

It's 9:00 now. I've essentially just been laid off from my job, so I drive over to the closest bar to inquire as to whether alcohol could console me at this hour. I swivel up next to the bartender after I arrive there. Rum and Coke. Rum and Coke. Whiskey. Whiskey. Peter Gabriel and OMD are blaring over the speakers but I can't hear them that well over the fucking inebriated ambiance that sounds like the verbal response from a battered pregnant woman. Too harsh? Probably. I need to vastly improve upon my metaphors. Don't blame me, though. Let me speak.

After I'm done drinking my blues away I clamber into my car. In what I can only ascribe to divine intervention I manage to drive safely outside the city limits - albeit at an uneven and legally vulgar pace - and I get the feeling that I'm on a Cannonball Run-esque cross-country adventure when I swerved and crashed into the queue of a supermarket.

I'm not sure if I'm bleeding or not, but I'm hammered beyond all godly recognition. I take out my pills and nearly choke on the handful I've picked out as I swallow them. It lessens the pain. I try to walk but I feel like a sex-addicted '70s journalist with cerebral palsy.

When I make my way inside I start eyeing out shocked and conspicuous blond women and begin to grope their breasts with my bruised hands. Fleshy pillows. James Bond. 007.

Boom and I'm handcuffed to a chair leg in the manager's office. I begin to absent-mindedly muse about the social effects of multiple personality disorder as my arm goes into action, smashing my fist against the chair in an effort to break the leg.

I succeed. I grab the remaining husk of the chair, straddle to a standing position and hurl it into the window. The window breaks. I climb out. I've got a long walk ahead of me.

I don't have a watch or a cell phone, but when I arrive in town and begins humping a dumpster a man in a passing ambulance notices that my head is caked with blood. I feel light-headed at this point. I try to breathe in through my nose and it smells like a smelting factory.

Luckily enough the guy in the ambulance has a watch; the time is close to 11:45. I'm relieved that it's not past 2 o'clock.

I spend a couple of hours in the dentist's - ahem, the hospital, just laying there and not able to move or really do anything. The room was dim, and so was the quality of my mood. Once they determined that my head injury was not severe and that I would recover quickly, I was free to leave.

It was 1:50 at around this time. Since I was in urgent need of getting to the library, I spent all my pocket money on bus fare.

I arrived there on time, give or take a few minutes.

And I waited.

And I waited.

And I waited.

And I waited.

And I waited.

And I waited.

And. I. Waited.

You didn't come. I stormed up to the front desk and asked if anyone matching your description had slipped by my gaze without my attention drawn to the fiasco. In response to this query she handed me a box full of old, patchwork dolls, like something out of a Kate Bush music video.

I ambled out of the library in a mindset of intense frustration and depression. I kicked cans down the street, eyed homeless people with signs quoting Nietzsche, and thought about how Kevin Costner hadn't been in a decent movie for a couple of years before I arrived home with the intention to overdose on my pills.

And you were there, holding a bag of paper towels in your clawed hands.

I collapsed onto the floor as though I was sexually aroused by the death of a loved one.

That night you collapsed on top of me and we began to violent fuck amidst the city lights and distracted, aggressive toots of taxi horns on the street below. The dark whispered past my window like some kind of phantom voyeur drawn from the blood of ancients. You left me in an apartment covered in paper towels, bleeding from the belt lashes you gave me, and I stared at a picture you left- a picture of the Jerusalem skyline - before I feel asleep.