The future always has different names, and different clothes, but the same thing happens, time after time: the future only comes to our house when it is drunk. The future must be kept drunk – because the future must, somehow, be tricked into taking us with it, when it leaves. We must hide ourselves in the fur of the future, like burrs – all seven of us – and ride its ass, all the way out of this tiny house and back down to London, and fame, and riches, and parties, where we belong. So far, this has never worked.
So far, the only plan I’ve come up with is writing. I can write, because writing – unlike choreography, architecture or conquering kingdoms – is a thing you can do when you’re lonely and poor, and have no infrastructure, ie: a ballet troupe, or some cannons. Poor people can write. It’s one of the few things poverty, and lack of connections, cannot stop you doing.
[..] – because I don’t care what I look like. I am a poet, and a writer, and I deal with hearts and souls and words, and not meat and vanity and a dress that would have made me look better. It doesn’t matter that I am ugly.
But then, if I’m honest, I want everyone to imagine they’re fucking me. Because [..] I use it as a springboard to go on what is basically a massive Shag Quest. I wish to be like James Bond, who never leaves a party without either shagging someone or blowing something up. That is my role model here.