Victoria Williams: 0063

Now I’m in a waiting room with a lot of others. We are all of us, hypothetically, lined up on plastic chairs under artificial lights. You won’t be able to see it, but you can tell by someone’s eyes, and their unkempt hair, and their rumpled clothes, and their fistful of prescriptions, and - if you are able to see them – by the traces of soul left after the rest vacated the body. You can tell when someone has taken a seat. They’ve joined the queue of sallow-faced ghosts, who fell for it like the rest of us, and believed that lovers you meet in psychiatric wards might be more interesting.