Our apartment is a hotel for losers. A pit stop before the next ride.

No one answers. It feels as if I’m not there, as if I’m as invisible as the nicotine they’re inhaling.

I pretend he doesn’t exist, and he does the same with me.

I bet she likes it hard, from behind, probably likes to get spanked too. I mean, just look at her, she has a serious come-fuck-me-face.

He calls himself working class, which I think is a bit ironic since he doesn’t work.

Nothing happens. And by that I mean nothing.

I don’t care what other people think about me. Most people are idiots, and they can think whatever they want.

I can tell she’s upset, but I can’t be bothered to say anything. Some days are just like that.

Most people don’t have shit… But paper and pencils are cheap, that’s why I draw.

I don’t care too much about talking, but I don’t like being alone.