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.