I’d ask myself, How did I get here? How did this happen? then remember, and forget again, and carry on like everything was normal, which of course it was.
On my birthday I go to an exhibition. Its themes are: death, separation, misery, gloom. Everything but fun. Perfect!
At the launderette, an elderly man took off his trousers, put them into the dryer without washing them. He sat on a chair and offered me a cigarette.
There was a thing by her in the turbine hall of Tate Modern a few years ago, enormous, black, metal spiders. Horrible.
They seemed especially nervous of ‘conceptual’ art. I can’t imagine what dark things they imagine.