There is a bouncer by the door in my brain labelled "anguish" and he likes to call himself Perspective but behind his back his few occasional friends like to call him "Angst-boy".

Perspective is a very large beast, fierce but with perpetual tears in his eyes, his battered leather jacket which he has always worn as a uniform is hung with a million brightly coloured pins marked in clear font letters with words like "rape" "child abuse" "abortion" "infertility" "bloodstains" "trashbin fireplace" "concrete bedding" and "wondering where your next meal is coming from".

He writes poetry about alleyway homes in his spare time.

He keeps trouble on the other side of the door. He looks them in the eye and they realize that they are minuscule in comparison.

He keeps trouble out, and the door firmly shut.

Usually.

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