Arts Graduate Pours Milk On Cornflakes Like Cascading Alabaster Waves Crashing On The Golden Coast Of Some Time-Ravaged Shoreline


AS the porcelain-white stream of albino liquid poured from its cardboard prison onto the shards of golden corn that lay in their tomb of smooth clay, Arts graduate Sean Keenan wondered whether or not he should put on some trousers and leave the house today or just lie up and play a bit of PlayStation.

Perched on the trustworthy but aging sofa, itself a friend for years, a comforter, a companion through scenes of joy and loss and unrequited love and sudden passion, Sean munched on his cornflakes while dribbling milk down on his Slayer t-shirt, as he watched Jeremy Kyle and checked his phone to see if that girl from Tinder had replied to him yet.

“What a life to be living, crushed by the weight of one’s own intellect while remaining utterly unhirable for all but the most basic of service industry jobs,” sighed 26-year-old Keenan, browsing for a career that suits his bohemian lifestyle but also pays an incredible amount of money.

“Maybe the day will bring forth more than the days that have gone before, and this poor and lonely wistful soul can indulge in something more than a frantic bout of mindless self-love on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, followed by a harsh and burning lungful of some maligned and mistrusted narcotic herb. Maybe today will wipe away this malaise that has trapped me in this jobless existence that we artists call home”.

Keenan was interrupted in his thoughts by his mam, who told him to lift his feet because she needed to hoover.