The Window of Insecurity

Homeless people are camped outside my bedroom window. I worry that they’ll break in. The window doesn’t lock properly. I worry about it, and think about calling the police. I’m stressed. 
I go out, selling stuff. I return home, via a green filled with homeless people, lolling about on the grass. One asks me for money. I tell him to fuck off. I consider chopping down the tree outside my bedroom window, depriving the homeless of their only bit of shelter. At home, my dad talks about getting someone to share my tiny room. 
Outside, I can hear homeless people talking. I open the window and tell the to get out of my fucking garden. They become violent. I grab some scissors and a knife, and slash and snip at them as they reach through the window. They are all talk. They are bleeding badly, and retreat into the twilight. An injured pig hobbles ahead of them. I’m angry that they’ve hurt it. 
I’m sat in the street on an armchair with Nigel Farage, and some friends. It is night. We chat. Nigel is very personable, but I hate his politics. He talks about his divorce, and going salmon fishing on Christmas Day, to show off to his friends. Harry Hill passes. I greet him and leave Nigel, who now looks very sad and friendless. 
I’m back in my bedroom. I know I’m dreaming. An idealised dad comforts me, tells me how good I’m doing, how safe my home is. I look outside the window of insecurity. The landscape has changed. A bank of grass replaces the garden. I look at dad. I tell him that he only exists because of me, and his face melts to plasticine. I know I’m dreaming. I tell him that he was too good, too reassuring to be real. His face reforms, this time as me. He tries to kiss me. I think he intends to rape me. I grab his throat and he turns white, like China clay, dead and malleable. 


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