It is after midnight, and I want to sit outside on the balcony.
I want to read The Sick Bag Song by Nick Cave.

It is starting to rain, like it has done all summer.

I look at the folded umbrella at the table with the two chairs propped against it.
There is an ash tray, that is really a pudding basin, overflowing with cigarette butts.
There is also a thin paint brush, an empty can of Diet Coke, and a piece of white Lego.

They say that The Sick Bag Song began its life scribbled on airline sick bags. I don’t scribble.

I tap notes into my iPhone, and people think I’m on Grindr all the time.

I open the sliding door and listen to the raindrops. I hear a girl shouting in the street below.

“Wait Laura, I can’t keep up in these shoes. You’re a fucking slag!”

My phone pings. It is a group chat.

“Hey Anthony, will you take a photo of the full moon?”

I can’t see the moon because of the rain clouds.

I go to the bathroom and run a bath.

I go back to the window and think that I’m probably in a bad mood.

I’m in a bad mood because there are many things I want.

There are lots of books I want to read. There are movies I want to watch.
I want to write a novel like The Catcher in the Rye
I want to be a recluse like J.D. Salinger.
I want to be a photographer.
I want to make the balcony into a lush garden.
I want to redecorate this crumbling apartment.
I want to be able to eat chocolate like I used to.
I want to do a lot of things.

I think about all these.

I go to take the hot bath and realise that I’ve added Oral-B 3D White Mouthwash to the water instead of bath creme.

I empty the bathwater.

I go back to the window.

Thunder rumbles.
I want to go outside and put the umbrella up.
I want to sit underneath it and read The Sick Bag Song and listen to the rain.

I tap all these notes into my iPhone. One day these notes will make a story.

It is time for bed.