So tonight, whilst I lay peacefully in the dimly lit bubble bath (sensitive care), Westham beat Man United 4 - 0 (come on, you bloody wonderful irons).
The house was still, and silent. With all other occupants out at the gym, par of course the cats, the sound that filled home was entirely my choice. I took it gladly, and watched my CD player's green light hum warmly. It was bitter as I ran the bath without it, and progressed to listen to the extractor fan in the bathroom. Murakami lie open on the tiles, bubbles threateningly close, his words easing me in gently. In a way only Murakami can do. Well.
And yet for a timeless... well time... I merely led, and spoke.
I guess this is not the sort of thing you admit to, nor post on an inanimate blog page, but I found it soothing. He's not here to speak to any way.
And nor is she.
It didn't last long, and their were long intervals. But my mind opened gradually, and I had not spoken about it in such depth before.
That night, that steak, the new, her lips, the pills, the cellar, the cold outside, the jacket that wouldn't do up, the last innocence. The truth and the finding.

My skin suddenly pales on the backs of my hands as I write, and i wistfully sigh.

~

I wash my hands after reading your letter,
And I lie, of course I adore waiting on the bus stop with you.
I've noticed, as many thousands of months before me have, that nostalgia hits sweetly in the winter. I crave, this year, sweet golds, rich greens and royal reds to drape the living room, sweet scents, a chocolate box and many dim lights.


I believe it was phrased, Westham won 4 - 0 in a rather snowy match at Upton Park. Perfection.

The Homeless Man and Chocolate Mike.

The actual air was frozen, I mean it, it was like smoothly gliding through deep sea water, walking to my bus stop after work. Even with the white fur of my scarf sticking to my lips as it enveloped three quarters of my face, my breath still broke through the material in a thick white mist before me.
Nearing two AM bore it's usual nonsense of a typical Saturday night, lairy-ness and lack of clothing. Work had been unkind this evening, as had most of those I had worked with, and I was more than anxious to be arriving home to a warm bed and two snuggling cats.
I sidestepped those too drunk to realise their staggering, and shivered inwardly at the women still donning Primark mini's when actual snow was visible on the cars around us (Snow that had been defaced with rude markings by said drunkards). One women passing by me split hands with her boyfriend on the road, singing about a Microphone with a derranged look on her face, she reached out to grab the 4ft black stemmed, white material rose I was clutching.
I slanted out of her grip and that moment was forever lost to her.
The gift to my loosely termed wife, for her most recent birthday, safe still, and the bus stop nearing sight.
And amidst all the trend setters, cold women and drunken speech, a small heap stood out to me.
A man, legs curled to his chest, an old withered looking winters hat cupping his head in a rejecting way, sat quietly in the doorway of a bank. Later to be described as ironic.
He didn't openly ask for change, like any other homeless man may (in a thick scottish accent, perhaps), but he sat, with kind eyes and a sad mouth. His attire, all in the dark of 2am, seemed rather colourless. Dark blues, dark greys, not necasarily black but they all blurred into just that. And yet his eyes, downward they were, but they seemed so blue. Even in the light I was given to view him.
I imagined he was an attractive man, should he be allowed a suit, a good scrub and a clean shave. I feared his eyes were frozen, so cold was this night. I passed him by slowly, his eyes went up on me for a moment, a moment in which I broke my own gaze, but smiled with a mouth revealed to the cold for his sake, and then I stopped.
I gripped at my belongings, and I gazed toward my bus stop. I looked back, but he was out of sight in that curved doorway, only his small silver tray with around three little coins within sat feebly in my view. I had already passed, I did not have to go back, my warm bus already sat at it's stop, waiting to ferry me home with a small charge of having to sit amongst said drunken 2am people and the smell of subway sandwiches.

His eyes glanced upward to me as I stood before him, I noticed only now that he had a rucksack beside him, propping up against him safely. His poessessions?
"Could you spare any change?" He barely spoke the words, but his voice was dully calm, sweetly calm. If he had a hot drink in him, he would be a well spoken man, a man to which a conversation with would be wonderful, whether he had much to say or not.
"I don't have any change" I lied, "But, I'd like you to have this"
My voice didn't sound like my own, just as it never usually does when I lie, but I felt him having my rose was much more important, and whilst I lie here writing with the urge of buying the man a suit, and a coffee or a cookie from subway, handing him the 4ft, black stemmed, white material rose warms me.
His eyes did not light up, but the kindness from them could barely thank me, and I'm not even sure he did, but his smile (to which I cannot remember if teeth were missing, or if my memory is biased) gives me more than I needed, and I barely said another word before leaving.
I never look back, I only saw him tuck the large stemmed rose into the side of his rucksack, and hope to the festive seasons spirit, that he does not sell the rose for alcohol, or trade it in for a drugs.


The bus held a usual scent of subway and takeaway pizza, although it being slightly earlier than the buses I would usually board, the crowd was less and the people at their appropriate limit for alcohol, unlike the 3am bus, of which would be filled, not doubt, with alcohol poisoning.
A man was told by my usual driver that it was much more his worth than getting a taxi all the way back, and he approached us sat toward the rear of the bus with a 'Hello' to where we were all headed, marking the name of destination, ironically, as 'sunny'. He sat before me, the seats slightly lower than my own, sideways, so he was comfortably in talking range with me. He attempted conversation with most, and I smiled at him, though secretly annoyed i may not be able to peacefully listen to my music on the way home as i normally would.

But he turned out to be a chocolate man. A chocolate man with a home in tenerefe, who used to drive mini cabs in London. He had a breaking Irish accent, and the ability to speak to almost any one and still have a genuine word to say.
He was happily sad that converstaion with modern dayers was broken if not dull, and every one seemed miserable. We shared our feeling, it seemed, and it was unusual for us both to actually find some one to speak to on the bus.

Chocolate Mike used to reguarly ferry the singer of the Pogues from his sisters home to the airport, way back when, and spoke of his wife not believing his knowing of a radio DJ, until said DJ bought them a bottle of champagne in a resturant. On ice of course. Only the best for the blue eyed Chocolate Man.
Chocolate Man gave in his slightly drunken, but perfectly tipsy worry, that all young people complain of being tired, when he himself travels out of the country at least six times a year, and can get by just fine on four hours sleep, when his wife (who doesnt' always accompany him abroad) needs at least 8 it would seem.
''My my...'' he said, ''If only I were five years younger!''
Chocolate Mike actually asked me about me, and yet spoke much of himself.
The journey was not long, but Chocolate Mike gave real conversation a delicious touch to what was almost a bad end to a night at work.
''You are so young!'' he exclaimed, although, for once, he did not mean it in a bad way. He was not judging me, nor making any assumptions. For once, to an older person, it was genuinely okay for me to be young.


~ These were delicious ramblings, all of true events and happenings that took place just tonight. SheBlinks tells no lies and means no harm should any thing mentioned relate to your own life or personal gains, and you should think yourself proud if you met The Homeless Man and Chocolate Mike.

In the time I knew you, I hadn't a home,
We'd send two letters at a time,
The night's sweet creatures, just sweet,
You and I only just finding 'our' feet.
I remember one of the first places you took me,
Rum served by Jerry,
A piano keyed by a man in smart dress and a topped' hat,
Low hanging, off lilac net curtains,
And ornate, slim, gold and floral seating.
A beaten leather suitcase subdued in a corner.

Not a single lamp matched,
And a river ran nearby,
Small silver bats flitting off it's surface,
Back into nothing, I'd sigh.

Since you, I have forgotten story telling,
And my words linger in my throat,
Until the moment has passed.
Bitter, unfelt and sunken, they slip back down,
He never wanted my stories,
How freely I can speak by the sea.
We never went there, he and I.
He wouldn't.

Do you remember meeting?
A lugged suitcase, your cobbles,
A bar that we seeped to the end of,
And yet found another door to outside?
Im sure I drank Rum again, and off you toodled for a cigarette,
But I heard a crack in the sky,
The heavens opening with a sudden lash,
An indescribeable amount of water, as if saved,
cascading over an old tiled roof, each cobble gleaming in protest,
And another crick in the sky.

Our, Us, it went a little like a storm,
The rest of the way.
It travelled just the same, patched up just the same,
It even came the same.


Suddenly, I slowly feel myself again.
Remember, I used to describe things?
And I haven't read a book in two weeks,
That is where the space is. And why I feel so alone.

My beach hums distantly, as you used to, some where far from here.
And I hear our old conversations running dry,
And laugh at my own leaving your letters at my other home.
I cannot leaf, and so i sigh in photographs pinned to my door.
The winter's evening sun sinks into my bedroom,
And lightens the detail on a memory captured.
I'm sure I'll find you behind the pier,
The wreck and the carousel.
Do you remember how we used to be?
I am, for now, sorry I was not ready for you.
I'd adore a cafe in the south, you and I, a book or three between us.
Conversation through eyes, a thin trail of your cigarette smoke,
A linger of gin and the way a kitchen smells when a cat eats there.

Every thing is changing,
My eyes feel they see the same,
And yet the people around me change.
I'm swaying to different music,
And touching things in different ways.
I've heard of the ultimate, the extreme, the goal I wish to reach - in hand.
And yet he left, and I quit, and it shattered, and
the house was built facing East.

Face me now,
Oh he'd rather not,
And suddenly six years make sense.


A dull yellow light fizzed over us from a television on some where,
A train pulls away from the station,
A band play their final song,
The curtain falls on a theatre show,
An elderly lady pulls the final thread in a throw,
A dog barks through a garden gate,
A waitress pours a coffee.
And we are no where, I've seen water's surface ripple to more effect.

~

Tonight I realised, you may fall for a voice,
And for me that is simply enough. For me, I need, at present, nothing more in love, than the back of a dark venue, head against the wall and music rippling through me.
Between the truth of my reality and the electric in my heart,
Men on the television look like my brother,
And the lady from North sounds like a lost friend.

There's a park somewhere south of the city,
We were there once as youngsters,
If i recall, we were in love, as much as the young can be,
And the sun was long but gone.
Had you ever felt how cold my skin is,
Lied to yourself of my misplaced accent?

I'll lead another,
We can all fall like those do in the pictures.
Trilby hat and a smooth, sweet talker.
But it will be long before another takes a hand like mine,
And so I'll sign, in blood, my sweetest lie,
An etch of identity come to fall!

"It's snowing.."
It may have happened, last, at an awful time in my life;
And yet, whenever it will snow, I feel magic still.
Perhaps the country freezing was, partly, his gift to me on leaving...
Or very possibly, a Sorry for doing so.

I can be selfish at times,
And yet so was he.

White, a fresh start, a decade at it's most fresh,
And here I stand, no flesh on show,
You see no indentation or stain,
As more nothing falls from the sky.
That's why I want Christmas isn't it?
For here, in my beloved England, it all goes together.
I'll lay in the snow, whilst windows glow orange in the distance.
The sky won't part from the horizon, I could spin and land some where up there,
Oh maybe I have.

Ill never feel sad, when the snow will fall.
And as far as I know,
He did it to soften the blow.




Our Bradleigh Fucking Jones.

Warn me next time,
Oh rid me of this illness!
Please let me forget the memories that stir my body,
Ache my chest,
and starve my lungs!
Who stops that?
And why can't I?
Let this sickness leave me,
May I not just remember and move on,
Remember and wretch,
Oh disgusting little life, with highlights through headlights,
My own bitter taste seems to dwell within others,
The hopeful and romantic,
The successful with the home!

Whatever made me did not want,
And yet was on to something,
Lazed and Crazy, such as a man by 2 ams pond light,
Have you no idea where I lie at night?
I forget any more,
And i see no mornings!
I awake and immediately the pain returns to my gut,
A warning, a tired body aching for all it has left to feel,
And won't you soothe me, lie me in the bath,
Over heat, dehydrate and return me to calm,
Could it be, another wrench in my gut?

OH just give me love,
Give me family oh give me friends,
Am i allowed to ask for this?
What stops me wanting, what leaves me leaking,
Have I possibly gone on without it all and bitter now I see..

Just stop shouting She, it's not a valid type.
Just remember, to fall in love.
Oh you can't win.

I buried it in the sand. (Revisited)

"My my, such whispers, such night...."
A little echo amongst the brambles and spikes of graveyard hedges. His head turned as quickly as his sensitive hearing picked up upon it. Not a movement, and silence regained, as if the voice from his very throat had moved the air around him.

Such necesseties were pondered,
through like-minded fools of age.
Five hundred, moving on six and still they little but grew,
I made such an effort, were such thoughts a daily delay;
To withdraw my feeling from each subtle feeding and take upon madness, a stride.

I gazed into eyes that had long since sunk back,
and I cupped hands around heads of the new borns.
I could see life in each, and the tide did receed on the beach i had only now begun to call home.
There were footsteps on the beach, some were a thousand years old,
I could see them engraved in the gristled sands,
Some more aparent than most.
I realised now, such soles of feet were ones i had become aware,
past lives that I'd known, past spirits imprinted upon my stone,
A whisper in midnight's light's breeze.

I heard his laugh,
And i saw another's eyes.
I touched familiar skin and I winced at usual words.
Regretted a person i was, appreciated change in my ways.
"Look, there it goes" came a strong whisper unseen. "Our lives right ahead of us, i can see it now;
One of us alone on this beach".

Prior to untimely ignorance,
This shall be about the grace of Autumn.
I left him for you, Autumn,
And I lost it all for you.
I brisked toward town, for you, and I breathe air you may see.
I wrap material around my neck,
I fend my hands from daylight,
Oh and what a light you give me Autumn,
One day merely white,
Colourless yet bright.
The next, a Golden day, speckled air and damp crisp.

You treat me well, you don't tempt too much,
You lie me out a day free of routine.

Had I not slipped into winter, Autumn, you and I may still have been together,
I worsened by Spring, such a bitter influence, oh how could i ever fall for heat?
Drag you in it does! Tempt you with colour, and shimmering water.
Decieves you with flowers, it does,
Hides all the trees!
Oh and when you wander out, burn you it will,
Crisp your skin and make you sweat,
Oh autumn, won't you save me yet?

I've done nothing but leave you for the next,
and yet around it come,
Once more, it come!
Shaking the cloth from the trees and pointing out glistening cobweb.

But you're so far away,
As though it may make sense for my eyes to focus on a letter.
They'll fall through another girl's post,
Addressed to myself, and signed in brief from you.
But I must hear your voice as I read,
I fear I shall forget it before long.

This evening, I leafed through paper work, old cards and scrap books,
Discarding odd pieces and cards from people of the past,
I came across a folded piece of paper,
Written about a boy who went there years ago,
Who I have since forgotten,
Had I lost the paper, I'd have never remembered he had been there,
And that I had waited for him.

I remember Paris, how i found writing from him in the lobby of a hotel.
He asked of my Uncle,
Who I would give the whole of Paris to have back,
And my heart leapt as if a bone in this body did mind his presence.

Dull chords return me to a letter,
And lulled vocals send sparks, like zaps through my bones.
I feel the spaces between them and the holes that run through them,
And they collectively well up in my chest.

When do I tell you I can turn time,
And when do I mention I may collect feature walls
And write on the carpet.
Remember when I left the drawing room door open?

I believe you will write when you have the time,
Until then I will read Murakami, seek a warm corner of the bed,
And wind up spider's webs near my curtain.
I'll put a rail up, I'm nesting without the foetus,
I'm sure this is an illness,
I've poessessed it from longing for the most part of my life.

Must I secretly adore waiting here,
Cleaning the home for his return,
I shall have my hair curled the day!



Any way, lining up the table chairs and shining all the wood,
I find myself remembering,
I left the mail box locked.

A small piece based on an Apocolyptic Zombie dream I had last night.
As it was written, as of yet, no changes.


The sun was shining in the hazy, refreshing way that it only could in the winter as I left the pub that day. And I do have to admit, I felt as if leaving The Kings Horse pub was to be my mistake of the day, for it had been good to me the two years I had worked there, even if most fellow staff hadn't been. It had kept me warm in the winter, and equally as warm in the summer, introduced me to many life friends and needed aquaintances, and told me stories of the likes I never would have dreamt of knowing. I lacked tan from missing sunlight due to it's hours, and my eyes were now permnantly sensitive to sunlight.
The decision wasn't there. I had to simply leave, a life was some how still on the outside, and from a general acknowledgement of life skill, I had to move on. I couldn't hide in a pub forever, especially not The Kings Horse, my Love/Hate and over again boozer.
The cobbled pathway down the hill was quiet, I wasn't sure what time of day it was, but it was certainly very early. It was a picturesque day, damp still lining areas of the road, a bitterly cool bright sun illuminating a glare to which i winced. I kept up my limp, and thought ironically of never having another 'lock-in' again, but my face showed no expression, and i tilted my head.
I could hear a mumbling of people, as i slumped down the Victorian Steps that lead to the main road, and I knew it had begun. They were clear as day, only I was not sure if they were close, and whilst I was nervous, I had an genuine comforting feeling that this was how it was now.
The usual sound of traffic was simply not there, not a whisper of a cars breaks let alone acceleration at a traffic light. The murmurs continued, and at the steps end a few stragglers of early morning people slid by. I couldn't see any faces, the suns glare aided me in making no eye contact.
I crossed, squinting, aware that had I been able to take them in, some of these people were probably just like me.

A dull mist led upon the river that ran through the City, travelled quietly along side me as I walked, dragging my foot. Tendrils of it began to run up the walls before softly cascading back down into themselves again, and seagulls croaking could be heard between the surrounding murmurs.
Somewhere a bin crashed to the ground and a loud murmur slowly faded out. I made no response as stragglers passed me.

I turned to follow the girl in the red hooded jumper, i partially regret that decision. She was being dragged along by a small dog, stumbling also, but she had a bag. I was aware she was like me, and I was going no where in particular.
"You're not very good at this, are you" she said in a low, achey tone, as if she hadn't spoken since she had woken up.
The door to the flats gave a quiet thud as it closed, but was over taken by the sound of running outside, and a small crash, and so went unheard by the stragglers. We creaked up the stairs, a window up high let in the hazed sunlight, a wave of dust surrounding us like glitter.
"It's all we have, here" She spoke again, as she turned to me at the top of the stairs, inserting a key and beckoning me in. Her dog took the invite and ran inside accordingly. He was the only one acting normal.
Silence went on in her flat, the murmurs outside, again all that was there. It was bright, and airy, and I'm sure had i cared to look, the view from here of the river was probably lovely. We sat in her hallway, doors on most sides of us, it was slightly cluttered with objects I didn't care to take in, and the dog fussed me.
"We'll just get by" she smiled seriously. "I'll sort you something to eat. Have you come from others?"
I shook my head, although there were a couple of us left at the pub, I recalled locking the cellar and making my decision to leave.
"Well that's just better I suppose, more simplistic, the less to worry about". We were sat on the floor, and she was going through the bag she had had on her person outside.
She began to speak, of what i believe was about a room mate of hers, whom I'm not sure was living here any more, for whatever reason. My eyes went to the window, a reflection of light from the river aided the sound of some one running as a blur went through it. I shivered.
"Do you want to stay?" My eyes flicked back to the girl, she had a look of innocence now, as if she hadn't had company for a while and was beginning to feel it.
"Tell me about you're flat mate" I asked quietly with a smile. And as she spoke I sensed a movement behind her. She didn't watch me as she spoke, a newly released fear riding over her that I failed to pick up on too strongly. Two doors behind her were propped open, both seemed to have obstructions near the door, that seemed to be a bed and a cot.
The movement again, this time i focused my eyes beyond the girl.
Wrapped in a duvet, a rounded, flesh like shape rolled back slightly. The light coming in from behind it made it difficult to see the detail of the sphere, as did the blue rug around it.
And then it slid open. As it did, the one in the room next door moved also. Smaller, and lower in the cot, but it too looked at me.
"I made the right choice, being here alone... There were several occasions where she left the door open..." the girl went on.
I felt as though I could hear it, the sound of the sphere through the door looking at me. It's flesh fell bacward, and the pupil of the eye adjusted, and I was aware it could see me much more clearly than I could it.
"You've seen?" She suddenly asked with a pale blunt voice. "They came not long after those did.." She looked to the window again. She had no indication that she feared me knowing what she had here. Her dark eyes were as colourless as they had been in the street.
She was good, good out there and in here, she had forgotten what expression could be all together.

Twelve Pounds and life would go on, I visited my father not long later and continued to be irrational in my choosing. I had always enjoyed the sea, and a good friend of mine now lived that way. In a secluded area of the seaside by the rocks, I hired a small boat, and awaited the tide to come in and she and I spoke. There were men on the beach, and none were acting. They did not ask for money, although hiring the boats was most certainly their old business.
Since then, the sea has shon silver.

''Why they put coffee in the coffee in Brazil''.


You may state, at will of course, that I have indeed gone mad. Actually, I have driven myself mad. And only slightly, and mostly at night. Yes, that's more acurate.
In a similar stance to last year, night time refuses to let me sleep. But I am certainly no insomniac, I shan't have it, when I am able to sleep so soundly during the day.
Though winter beckons me with damp streets and grey skies, frosted benches and coffee cups. I'm not in Brazil, Winter, please! In simplicity, when shall I sleep, and shall I at all?
I'm not a Christmas person, oh I never used to be. What I used to be was a Christmas child, and that, in technicality, also holds the simple fact that I only ever used to be a child. And now, a teenager. Im presently adult, if we are speaking in numbers.
My ID gives me the ability to buy alcohol as Christmas presents, crossing half my list and winking surreptitously, though of course this would change if I were to become a plod.
You see, had I ever have been allowed to work the tills at my short stretch in Debenhams, a police man (filth) attempting to buy a 'last minute christmas gift' of a whiskey set with shot glasses, playing cards and coffee granules (name brand) would be highly illegal and I may, and I have, the legal right to, say;
'No mister plod, you are not to purchase this alcohol, go about ye' business'
Of course, working downstairs and not in my assigned top floor 'Childrens Wear, Toys and Electricals.

But still.

A politicians daughter was accused of drinking water, and fined a great big fifty dollar bill.

I sectioned myself off to bed after watching 'Being Human' and pondered on my very long and strange fascination with that that is exactly not that. Being Human, I mean.
For if my obsession was not with animals (as a very young child) it was the creatures in horror movies (as a very, very young child) and my delicate look toward Sci Fi (Oh dearest Alien, i was always on your side, though, Ripleys too, as she was most certainly one of you, truely), and then as i grew older, the natural progression into the vampire and the monsters of movies many decades before my own time.
Most of my obsessions lay in times I wasn't a blink in the eye.
Some not even my parents were a glint in an eye, this coast or that.

No tea, or tomato juice... You'll see, no potato juice.


A question I just read asked simply 'Nose Bleed?'
And should I reply by writing, let it be known, in this day and age no matter what I say will be labelled. As emo - no doubt, violent - a possibility, and a favourite - You ought'a get checked.
I'll have my weekly check up, in which I have no guidelines and no particular doctor. I massage my stomach and ask myself if I am hungry, i moisturise my skin whilst feeling for lumps, bumps, aches, spots or sores and then I brush my hair out to count the strands.
Okay, the last ones a lie.
And the whites of my eyes are so much greyer as the years go on.
The veins are protruding from my hands and I have a strange flash back memory..
The ex alcoholic/drug addict that shared a ward with Suzy in hospital many years ago. His red matching pyjamas, my memory has placed a teddy in his arm, and with his rough and experienced face so simply drained, his hair a-scew, he is the epitome of nostalgia.
With a vacant stare only a man missing can do.

Oh where did his book go?

Perhaps this is all I need?
A personal touch, oh my own words fail me as we fall into dance.
Of course, it was clean,
My own sweet reds, the only sort you'd see in the pictures.

Look me up when you find the book,
I've heard of happy endings that way.

Sitting by, I found the scent of cafes alluring,
So your train at an hour behind won't bother.
And hopefully I shall still be here when you arrive,
For my hair works with this back drop.

A scent floods past me, light pollution like glitter,
And I'm spinning to the end of your grip on my hand,
Only to twirl back to your body,
I feel your arms around me as we sway and you tilt me backward.
I smell the faint cigarette smoke that curled across the bar,
and taste the same whiskey you always buy.
Your low brow smile,

And the cafe chimes back to my eye.
A coffee cup clicks and a machine does hiss,
Whilst a woman beside me soothes a humming baby
And a man speaks on his mobile of cost.

I'm only here for a little while longer,
And I'm sure you said an hour ago.

Romance swelling, some times i just forget how to express myself.
And I may only dress in one way per day,
One per night.
There is just too much for me to be,
As so, places that I simply must experience.

Please remind me how I fell in love that once,
And so I may attempt another.
It was blues and bitter rolling bass that left me fallen, here.

Dont let the fear take me, and dance with me again?

"Oh maybe it will happen.. Who knows?" Such a jocular tone toward her, as i gathered the cutlery I had just wrapped, and turned to re-enter the pub.
Such a grip, and yet as I turned, one imperfectly wrapped steak knife and fork cascaded to the ground, it seemed to happen slowly, and yet i barely recognised the fall, until I looked down to see a perfectly opened napkin, a fork lying solemnly and a steak knife; piercing the ground.
It's slanted direction was toward me, as if it were simply up to me and no one else to pull it's point from the orange lino. There it stuck.
The cook looked at me and I, the knife, so still it was, stuck in the ground.

Perhaps... Oh if you are simply a knife in the ground, then be so!

But something swept over me. A realisation, a fresh winters breeze, a thin splash of warm water...
He remembers what I wore the day we met.
And I've a mind for numbers.
Songs in the market and previous numbers before,
How can you pass by 365,
And how sweet can an old touch to a painting be?



It's white and tea stained, the night I lay.