She was living in the lounge by then, just boxes, a bed, and several ways to drink wine. The emptiness of the space moulded the acoustics into something desperate; sounds lost their sharpness in the gaussian echo. The room took her words as she talked and smeared their meaning. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked. I was invited once, I told her, neither of us sure it was true. She lay down beside me and we spooned for a while, autonomously generating warmth between us. ‘Be mad,’ she told me, asking as always for something I couldn’t give her.
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.