Diaries of an Everyday Model.

One: Nicotine smiles and television eyes set to black and white. Bathed in klieg lights and Robert Smith on repeat. Smile with your ketamine teeth, sounds like smeared lipstick. The world feels like a funeral. Today I’ve eaten nothing other than my recycled image and the most over used sentence 'I’m ok'

Two: There’s a skeleton in the basement, his hearts as brittle as glass. My mother’s expression is static and the radio is playing Joy Division. The weather outside is a customary grey and the air is a diluted sense of despair. The question is, “what kind of mask shall I wear today?”



Three: The media have become infection. Glamour was in a metal shell, like elevator music to an atrophied girl. Her mouth had become a vacant cut. 


Four: This world seems foreign, I have become alien.

Five: There's a hole where my heart should be and I’m driving at 100 mph to a destination commonly known as failure. One hand holds a barely lit cigarette and the other clutching a gun aimed at my head with absolute precision. 



Six: This misery machine is about to break down. The weather is condescendingly warm and I feel nothing but frostbitten and lifeless. The streets are lined with dull-witted mongers with a paralysed grin with any thoughts of difference being completely exotic. Music has become the only breathable atmosphere, inhale.



Seven: The world has become a dead celebrity circus.