by Stuart Mackie
I’m in the cold kitchen with a crate of stout: it’s my only anaesthetic. White tiles surround me, the table-top is marble. I’m dissecting the corpus of my life, aiming to uncover the cause of my morbidity. A livid array of vanities and regrets are laid out on the slab and each one is scrutinised in the clinical glare of self-pity. This bloodless inquiry continues through the night, its purpose becoming increasingly elusive. Several hours later I’m kicking an empty crate around the yard as dawn begins to leaven the all-consuming blackness.
Stuart Mackie lives in London and is new to all this. Witness his faltering steps here.