From The Start (George Daniel/Matty Healy)

1: Matty Is Really Great At Dealing With His Problems

Whether by sunlight or moonlight or something in between, he sat at his desk and he watched the sky, for it held that certain kind of beauty that reigned without dispute, and in a world of question marks and ever changing situations, he really reckoned he needed that.

There was no certainty in a world governed by opinion and free will, and although that was where the beauty lay, such beauty was coupled with the anxiety that spanned for days: cold fingertips tapping on windowpanes as brown eyes glassed over and fixated upon the world outside and how it kept raining, through spring and into summer. He watched the drops against the glass, and contemplated how long it would stay cold, and for how long he'd find evenings drawing in too soon, and the morning light leaving him lying sleepless in his sheets at five am.

Matty was no good when it came to functioning alone, and it had never intended to be as such: this was a house for two, after all, but things had happened, as things always did, because there was no such thing as certainty, and far too much rain, and he missed the sounds of the kitchen as he sat at his desk; he missed the house being lived in, because like this, he felt like some kind of ghost.

He was big on codependency, yet despised the concept of it, but at twenty six years of age, it was becoming increasingly apparent that Matty just could not function alone. It wasn't that he needed to move back in with his mum or anything, or that he couldn't function, because he could; he knew exactly how to use a microwave and not all of his clothes had turned pink in the wash, thank you very much.

It was loneliness, he had concluded. Ross had concluded, because Ross was something like his mother: always calling to check that everything was alright, because Matty knew that his friends were certain of the fact that there was something very off with him, but Matty was also very well aware that they most certainly couldn't pinpoint it. He wanted them to think he was fine, because he was fine, he was just, just kind of stuck: stuck in bed, stuck watching the rain, stuck with all the curtains open, stuck in the same shirt for the past week, stuck in himself, stuck in his own mind.

Self expression was key for positivity and functionality, especially in his case; he was big on words, and as they lodged themselves up in his mind he became fixated and the world grew out of focus and hours became days stood at the windowsill: watching the rain, wondering when, if ever, it might stop, and it always did, and Matty relied on that. He needed answers, he needed stability; he needed words down on paper - he needed the words in ink, the structure of it all, and the way there was some physical proof laying beside him on his desk to prove that he wasn't a complete waste of space, but his head was empty: empty like never before, and there was nothing but a still and quiet house that was just a little too cold to walk around barefoot in the mornings in.

He was a poet, or something like that, because he reckoned that to describe himself properly as a poet he ought to have produced some form of poetry worthy of renown or at least moderate appreciation, but all he found himself acquainted with was his desk, his typewriter, and the waste paper basket.

Ross told him he had self confidence issues, and some other bullshit about not doubting himself, but at that point, Matty had tuned out of the conversation and put the phone on speaker and down onto the kitchen countertop, before rushing off to the bathroom. By the time he'd returned, he found that Ross was still rambling on about self-appreciation and how he should take the time out of his day to share his work with others, and how he had potential, and how he should go out more, and how he should go out to eat with them.

Matty was running out of excuses to politely decline going out to eat with, and was now coming very close to declaring himself as a very strict vegan or something, but that was of course a lie that he would not be able to maintain.