W7

Mum is everywhere in this house. I should leave and never come back, but I want to stay forever and never stop thinking about her.
I just found an old W7 bus ticket, the ink almost faded, tucked into one of her books. (Margaret Atwood; Life Before Man.)

Maybe the book is hers; maybe it’s not. It’s enough to make me think of her though, and now she’s everywhere. Does she know it’s like this? Is she anywhere? Or is she totally absent, as gone as she feels? Nowhere.

Why the fuck is everything so dramatic to me these days? I can’t look at a fucking bus ticket without crying.

Fuck.