Whilst watching Steve McQueen’s Shame

by Arran James

I broke open a little bit, or let something go. After, in the cold outside sucking down a cigarette (as if sticking two fingers at thanatophobia), I felt as if a survivor of some collapse. It didn’t feel like reclamation or renewal. And promptly, as the protagonist of that film, I plunged myself deep into a woman. Squalor victoria!