I had gone to no such place but to the smoke of cafés and nights when the room whirled and you needed to look at the wall to make it stop, nights in bed, drunk, when you knew that that was all there was, and the strange excitement of waking and not knowing who it was with you, and the world all unreal in the dark and so exciting that you must resume again unknowing and not caring in the night, sure that this was all and all and all and not caring. Suddenly to care very much and to sleep to wake with it sometimes morning and all that had been there gone and everything sharp and hard and clear and sometimes a dispute about the cost. Sometimes still pleasant and fond and warm and breakfast and lunch. Sometimes all niceness gone and glad to get out on the street but always another day starting and then another night. I tried to tell about the night and the difference between the night and the day and how the night was better unless the day was very clean and cold and I could not tell it; as I cannot tell it now. But if you have had it you know.


but the key was mine (i keep a spare one every time)

Pipelines, super-sized Sunday roasts (thank/you/Jesus), rush hour headphones, friends like you wouldn’t believe, breakfast beers, trainers, rum carafes, Neal Street, fresh garms, still snowing, back to Big Hands (William, it was really nothing), porn star martinis, champagne sorbet, giggly mornings, train journeys, hope, side streets, cava in bed, dearest Manchester, new girl syndrome, this is for lovers (running away just for today), lock, stock, and two smoking barrels. That’s about all life’s saying these days.