Gus was distraught. He sat in his dead brother’s Georgian flat. The cold of the morning gathered round his nethers. He had written little and soon he had to go to work. He had to. His sick leave had wracked up and he did not want to have to endure another formal meeting with his so called supperiors. Those fuckers fed on their own sense of superiority.
Flammis acribus addictis
Alone with the pitiful words on the pages he was sure had no meaning. He despaired. He had wasted five years on this junk.
Voca me cum benedictis
He had left his girlfriend at home with their child. He had sacrificed their happiness for what. He hated the thoughts of seeing her again for the disappointment he engendered. He had staked the world on his own glory and it was not forthcoming. This was prison he was trying to write himself out of without a future. Their were no redemption, no reconciliation, no forgiveness. He would always have a record in the minds of others.
Oro supplex et acclinis
Cor contritum quasi cinis
“Cockballs” he screamed. His neighbour banged on the flimsy wall between their rooms. Gus didnt care. He endured that fool’s morning prayers. “Pissflaps” the world returned.
Gere curam mei finis
He sipped his tea. He pulled back the dirty net curtains looking out at the window at the grey wait day that awaited in the alleyways behind the house.
He decided to put on his pants. There was no point running the gauntlet of having to meet the neighbours running for the communal shower only to find it was engaged. He would have to risk offending his library colleagues.
He put his coat on and his earphones on. He shut the bedsit door quietly and steeped out the front door. The large black door echoed round the Georgian Square and danced through the ornate railings and the empty cricket club. Only architecture can offer grandeur to a poor soul.