I find it poignant in this moment that the noun for that which I am staring at right now is that: Facebrick. Red. I am facing the brick, indeed. And turning red has become a usual voyeuristic habit from which I cannot escape. A boyish desire to stare, but a Catholic-guilt infused rush of blood to cheeks.

There is no-one to see me blush. Just myself, guarding my thoughts.

I’m perched like a bird of prey at a window in the inner city. Across the road is a tower of flats. From where I sit I cannot see the end of it, as it stretches upwards, so it looks like it goes on forever. The people go on forever too. I mark their comings and goings, not unlike a trainspotter.

I wonder sometimes, when that creepy feeling of paedophilia comes over me (must be the Catholic guilt again), if what I am doing is somehow inherently wrong. But, as with all “wrong” things, it feels so good.

I’m not a paedophile. I can sympathize with those who have that issue, because I see the continuum within me that could have led to that life. It didn’t though.

I’m perhaps more sinister (that’s my sense of drama coming out). I’m a peoplephile. An addict of people. One that derives pleasure from the general populace. Sex has nothing to do with it.

I stroke the fading faux brown suede of the throne-like chair, placed strategically at the window.

I’m alone, as usual. The window never lets me feel isolated though. Like television, I guess. Alone at home with the TV on, one never feels the desperate isolation one feels when whisking through the world with no connection. No-one to talk to.

The window is my tele-vision. I spend all day here, and never get bored. There is always something on. I can flip through the frames and will always find something.