"To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream."

"Wherever I sat - on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok - I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air."

And the red bull ran behind them and covered their footprints

Job Match

Some days I make myself jump with the sound of my own voice.

I find it very difficult to care about most things. Especially things relating to bar graphs, colour schemes and promoting myself using covering letters and estimates on how much money I am worth.

I would like to hide myself inside an under developed country but I am worried about being naïve and irritating to local people. I am afraid of large insects.

Everything that goes up must come down. Does everything that goes down have to come up? I am not sure if this is applicable.

I like children but they irritate me and also I feel like they are difficult to make conversation with. Children make me highly nervous.

Every day I find a part of my fingernails and large clumps of hair around the plug hole in the bath. I bit into a thick slice of yellow cake and part of one of my back teeth came loose. I am worried that I am falling to pieces but am willing to undertake physical exertion in any position.

Nine times out of ten I say prayers over and over again for my family and think about whether I would like to be buried or cremated after my career is over.

I would appreciate it greatly if you could forward any job matches to the following address….

She sat on the sofa glaring at me and cleaning in between her toes with my favourite shirt.

It was a million miles away, away from fake smiles
From footsteps on concrete and nights on the tiles;
It was somewhere else alone and confused
Twisted, tainted, fraught and abused.
There was little else left than to invite you in
With your red mouth paint and your legs stick thin.
Together we destroyed the world in a day
And ended up a million miles away.

Sam Wheatley

Someone had scrawled, "YOU'RE LATE," in huge purple letters that completely covered the bus times.

"Nobody thinks or feels or cares any more; nobody gets excited or believes in anything except their own comfortable little God damn mediocrity."

You took me down into the cellar with the cordless telephone and took out all the walls so that the sound echoed. And then you shouted. The words echoed through my head and my ear lobes tingled. “I think I’m going to give up on her. Make sure that it doesn’t happen to the other one. It could happen worse. More bad. If she’s still around.” Then you went back upstairs to listen to a radio play and left me underneath the house with the corpses of family cats and the dastardly echoes.

I remember the times you caught me running away. Always wearing your high heels and your best red dress. I ran through the shops screaming at your grocery man, your butcher, your man that delivered your parcels and bank statements. “Give me ten of your finest carrots! And a stack of thirteen brown envelopes! Don’t hang about!” I peddled on the spot, my legs growing longer, lipstick and heavy cheque books in my pockets. You’d pull me back by my hair into dungarees and after school amateur dramatics clubs.