Seven...

Sunday, December 10, 2006

16:20-16:27 (GMT). 6:11:2006. Fifth floor of a block of flats on Duke Street, Liverpool. L1. Facing South-West.

16:20. Outside it was another bright winters day, but I had kept the curtains closed again. At 16:20 the light in the room changed, so I sneaked a peek. The sun, bloodshot and swollen, was going down on Birkenhead. It didn't make a sound. It didn't need to. It just kept on going; it was imperceptible really, but I could feel it. It made the Mersey seem as if it were a mirage. It made everything shimmer, as if everything was trembling, as if everything was wet; like its passion could melt anything it licked. I could hardly breathe. I could hardly fucking stand it. It just kept sinking, deeper and deeper and deeper into the Wirral. There was nothing I could do but go with it; I couldn't fight it, I just fucking couldn't. As I watched it going down on me, I remember thinking: You bastard, you got me, you got me just in time. - It was 16:27.

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