The Accidental Man:

Part 1, Draft 2

Nb~ Bare bones slowly fleshing out, story writing itself but wants to go everywhere, trying to reign it in, give it structure, make it less self-indulgent. Now feeling mired in this beginning, re-writing the same scenes, want it to move on, argh. The beginning is the hardest part; all hell and no biscuits. This is not a book, it is a trip pretending to be a book, a seed waiting to germinate in the hungry hearts of the doomed and disilluisoned.

OK, right, bollocks, I shouldnae hae stopped to rewrite, gotta finish the story even if it looks shit, then edit. Gotta get the story down....

6.15 Adam wakes alone, tired eyes taking in the scene of his empty room, just a couple of boxes and a matress. Lights a fag, fumbles with a spliff and takes a line; he can't remember how long he's been living like this, only why, a man educated for success he's tired with the monotenous daily grind, unquestioned, unnecessary, easy, bland. The drugs are an excercise, a test of strength - he only ever feels alive on the days he quits and starts again. But thats how it is, born on the wrong side of the tracks, dissatisfied, pissed off, chaos in the flesh.
Work starts at eight; five minutes to wash of the cold sweat and carefully disinfect the latest series of sores - where was he last night? He crawls from his matress placed deliberatly on the floor, with the furniture gone he's space to lie, sprawled, and breathe, taking in the sequence of last nights disjointed dreams.
The water splutters cold from the communal shower, but thats how he likes it, so he thinks, so he says, and soon he's before the dusty mildewed mirror rehersing his uasual script: "Adam Hart, 29, born in London and he's doing fine, always on time, an ambitious, conscientious go-getter of a man, man with a plan".

"get out of the bathroom, twat!" erupts a disembodied voice from the hall, and its time to leave.

He shaves in his room and dons a suit, trail mix and flapjack for breakfast, but at least he's clean. His colleagues never suspect a thing, but just in case he indulges in a final preparation of B vitamins and 5-HTP before heading for the door and more monoteny.
The long march down pre-fab streets is hardly inspiring, all grey buildings, grey faces and grey suits, but sharp as a raz`or he cuts a path through the faces he meets, a twang of pity for those that sup lattes and brandish muffins for kicks and status trips, safe in the greater good of contracts and dealerships, then too quickly he's moving through the bleach white corridors, bleach scented, stark and half-lit all at once, into the office he's picking up forms, smiles and greetings from colleagues he mimicks but mostly ignoresIts a sales job, keeps the bastard wolf from the door while he bites down on his restless dissappointment and carries on.

The day seems to die before it has been born. He knows most of his colleagues have been waiting for it to simply end.