Completed cycle

Periodically, I'd get to deliver a pizza to a flat on the chine and glumly transacted, fiddling with the car keys, I'd slowly turn my back on the sea.

Periodically, it would get warm enough to shove some trunks and a bottle full of frozen water into a bag, and I'd quickly turn my back on the land.

Pushing out to France, before I turned up towards the sky to pretend I was the only person out there, the view would cycle; beach, inflatables, pier, changing rooms, amusements, funicular, cliff, chine, flats. Cycle to a point - after flats, sky, then inverted horizon, then scum, then seagull feathers, the sea and then I best blow hard out of my nose. So the sky is the logical conclusion to this sad isolating activity that takes me away from the lithe bodies of foreign language students and the wonky dinner bells of their chatter. The sky is the end, but before the end, flats. 

It has always bothered me not knowing what went on before the end, what went on in the flats.

So my brother, now is in one of those flats, with a lobby that from the outside, half my life ago, hinted at a glamour and decadence that I elevated into cabaret - easy to with the assumption of denial. And now, being shown its dead space, its propensity towards dishing out carpet burns to the unruly. Up the lift and flatmates concerned, towels bunched up on the window sills, pissing rain slapping the panes silly, no mods for mould, a grey blackening cartoon paint accident on the carpet and the glass is definitely going to blow in, hectic mate, bloody awful.

Next morning. I'm awake, looking out over the cliff, cycle complete, wilfully trapped in the grey eye.