I wanted to feel closer to all the words I’ve read, so I packed a suitcase and left.
The lights of London from the sky reminded me of home, which should have been a warning I suppose. But I wandered the streets looking at the ghosts in the gutter. I drank pots of coffee and ate boiled eggs and wrote down my thoughts in frenzy writing spasms, thinking this is how we’re supposed to live.
One foot in ruin and the other in warm pubs.
Somewhere along the wide roads with blinking lights I fell into the present. I no longer saw the young beautiful men with cheeky, drunk smiles and permanent ink in their fingertips. I started chasing after my own shadow, wanting to write down the walls and the signs and the broken voices who sang outside my window at 4 am.
They sang about the cold and about trying to keep afloat.