What do you want. What do you want, what do you want waddaya want what do you want. You go outside, but it’s the same pressure in the chest. You go back inside, then, and the smells of the house crowd you. Wood and plaster and maybe dust, perhaps the smell of the sheets in the bedroom, unchanged from the last sex.

Outside there were pretty women but you took no pleasure in looking at them. You were looking nonetheless — hunting them with your eyes. You forgot to take your sunglasses with you. You looked, very aware of their fashionable clothes and the way their breasts moved within their shirts as they walked. What do you want? Nothing stirred in you, seeing these women, no low rumble in the pit of your stomach, in your dick, just a sense of regret. And more pressure in the chest.

Your neck hurts. You sit by the typewriter you bought in the market, then found a special shop that still repairs those and took by bus to be repaired in. And then back by bus, and here it is, what do you want? You move your fingers on the old keyboard but nothing stamps itself on the page. The part of you that should be swollen and heavy with words feels empty and aching. Looking at the blank paper you feel the same sense of regret as outside. You write, then, just so the page won’t be empty. It’s awful and it’s strained and you take the sheet of paper to your computer and you type it and you post it online.