The morning is ending and I've just opened my eyes. I stare across the cluttered room I'm in. I yawn. I scratch at my groin. I feel my cock and start a slow masturbation. When I'm finished, and it doesn't take long, I get up with a leap, wrap a towel around my naked body and make a slow journey downstairs.

I hear noises from throughout the house. A robotic voice is squealing over a bass-beat on the CD. The very narrow stairs stretch down before me. I walk past cobwebs, stains on the carpet, a biro on one step, a cigarette butt on another. In the lounge I grab a packet of cigarettes and light one. On the mantelpiece I notice an old family photo. I've forgotten this photo. My brother in a red shirt and black shorts has one arm around the old man and another around my mum. She looks like Elizabeth Taylor, or at least is trying to, and Dad is wearing a grey suit with a narrow black tie. He's trying to look like Mastroianni, or like Delon. The tie belongs to me now. I'm in the picture too. Sitting cross-legged on the grass, in a blue shirt, aiming a plastic gun at the camera. The colours in the photo are rich, bright. Colour photos don't do that any more. Technology makes things look too real. I turn away from the photograph and look at last night's mess strewn across the lounge room. It's not my place.