I'm sick of this, he spat as the spin cycle span. I've been sitting here for years watching washing machines go round, round, round, round, round.

I went to art school, but the teacher lost my work and so I fix kitchen appliances for pissed-up, pissed-off customers now.

I got these stories and illustrations. It's like a calling for me to create em. I drop them off in coffee shops and I don't care who reads them. That ain't why I put my pen to pad, I write em cause I need to.

I ain't got much in the way of good company. Just strangers in kitchens offering me cups of tea, imposing with conversation, or trying to ignore me, never in between.

I'm ageing my back aches, my knees hurt from kneeling on lino for my entire working day. And when I get home I'll open the bottle and scribble my thoughts til the day is forgotten.

I'm tantamount to genius, the things I write are beautiful. Don't care if you don't read 'em, cause I never wrote a word for you. I write em for me. And I like what I read. I'm kind of lonely.

I got these stories and illustrations. It's like a calling for me to create em. I drop them off in coffee shops and pray that someone reads them because if my art had impact it would give my life some meaning.