20.2.11

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19.2.11

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Darkness. Blaring lights on a cold station platform awaiting the 18:25 to anywhere.
Two young lovers kiss goodbye in a glasshouse, sheltered.

Someone says it feels good to be alive.

8.2.11

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In a crowded bar on a cold January afternoon that could be a Wednesday or a Monday N and I talk life, disappointment and direction. And it’s been awhile because I lost myself somewhere between last year and here, misplacing a lot of phone numbers along the way.
“I haven’t written anything substantial in months. Should I worry?”
“Definitely. I haven’t designed anything in months either”
“Considering you’re a fashion designer and I like to think of writing as my thing we’re pretty shit”
The look.
“I’m rather enjoying my days of Jeremy Kyle and waitressing actually”
“Sure. And I’ve this bridge to sell you in Brooklyn”
Another look.
“You’ve used that one before. Write some new material”
“You’re a bitch”