I looked out at
Brighton from the
back window
of my neighbour’s
fourth floor flat.
There was fog.
The sky was grey.
The sea was black.
The seagulls were loud.
It was 11.58 when
the fireworks started to
go off in all
the little gardens.
There were no
societal spectacles,
no organised festivities.
Just people on their own
in their little quads of freedom,
refusing to let another year
start without
the flurry, the fury.
My neighbour was
drunk and screamed,
“Happy fucking
new year.”
We lit a spliff.
We couldn’t find
the bottle opener
for the wine.
I said, “I love people.”
Ten minutes ago
I hated them.
