promise it to me, promise me the sea.

life, photography

last night, i had a dream about you.

In this dream, i’m dancing right beside you.

Did I mention I’m moving in Janaury? Well… I have now. Moving house and city = daunted. Not least because I’ve been in this flat for four years and am not renowned for my receptiveness to change. Tried to start sorting through my stuff this weekend, alongside doing some work from home/eating too much pasta/listening to too much Daft Punk. Hope my neighbours like Digital Love as much as I do. From the little sorting-of-stuff I’ve done, it has quickly become clear that if there’s one non-negotiable, it’s the books and magazines. They’re coming with me however-many-trips-it-takes/come-rain-or-shine. Apologies to whoever is tasked with carrying them to the van (dad/brother). And although I have plucked up the courage to start the ‘sorting’ phase, to think I’ll never see the walls which have housed me for years or the view from my balcony again, makes me slightly breathless. I’m trying not to think about that reality at all. Instead I’m surrounding myself with the people who think the world of me, because, the way I see it, that’s the only way I’m going to land myself safely on the other side.


and the rain falls hard on a humdrum town.

Peculiar, isn’t it, when you know you’ll be able to pinpoint a certain day, moment or decision for the rest of your life? Remember what you were listening to/what you were wearing/what you ate/how you felt. For me, although today passed fairly averagely in most ways, I also know it’s going down in my history, for one small reason or another. Shame I didn’t find an appropriate moment to crack open some fizz, though my wonderful new headphones are making for pretty good company instead. The fizz can wait for another day. Meanwhile, here’s a few recent pictures from my phone. You won’t be surprised to see Kate, some strong German beer, and frankly my favourite magazine cover ever.

literature, photography

‘Suppose I don’t go to Southampton, and come into town
this afternoon?’

‘No – I don’t think this afternoon.’

‘Very well.’

‘It’s impossible this afternoon. Various -‘

We talked like that for a while, and then abruptly we
weren’t talking any longer. I don’t know which of us hung up
with a sharp click, but I know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have
talked to her across a tea-table that day if I never talked to her
again in this world.

I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was
busy. I tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me
the wire was being kept open for a long distance from Detroit.
Taking out my time-table, I drew a small circle around the
three-fifty train. Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to