Our kind … So ill-fitting. So maladjusted.
Why did we appear? What are we for? What were we brought to Newcastle to do?
We’re a type that only appears at the end, as a sign of the end. Of the sickness of the end.
We’ve been disastered. We’ve been nihilised. We’ve been fucked in the head. We’ve been destroyed.
It was done to us. And now it has to be undone. With wine.
Work in Progress 