Fuck the pleasures of the senses, she says, smearing her voice with a fingertip rubbing cocaine remains into her gums, I’m only in it for the soul. Pupils like pie plates, she’s the aperture end of a camera, absorbing light and spitting out interpretation. I don’t know where we are. The world rushes at me with the speed of relativity. I try to slow things down by pushing my hands through the table, forgetting the reality of the situation. I ask if we should fuck, but she won’t stop shaking her head. The soul, she says, where’s the soul?
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.