Saturday, January 16


LONDON CITY, LUMINOUS and sparkling.
The bright sunlight on a good day when everyone and everything is telling me to go out and enjoy it.
‘Go for a walk along Embankment.’
The sun casting a shadow around the building like a wart.
London City, forgive us our trespasses.
I have nothing to write these days, nothing to say. I don’t know where I am expressing myself, or if I have anything to express. My nerves are slowly dying. Someone could make a good case for this being related to my lack of reading; Plath on the coffee table so rarely opened.
Great fogs of red and green lights, disturbed by that white car candyfloss. The sound of a not-so-distant party.
Yellow tulips next to my sofa.
And although the source remains unseen, there are bubbles floating down on the south bank; clear blisters of light pricked in the darkness of my path.
A dead jellyfish washed up at the end of my bed. I need something someone to come in and unsettle my life, to stir me up, to make me muddy water. I often think of saying hello to the Girl Who Made Me Forget, ask her how she is doing, perhaps she would like to hear from me again.
London City, I walk through your bowels.
On the packed tube, I stare at the skin of the man in front of me, oily and shining. There are lots of little marks on it, imperfections that have grown over the years, though some have faded.
The weather forecast reads like a guest list to a four-year-old’s birthday party. No, it cannot be snow. The streetlight says sleet, but the pavements say rain.
I miss the clear night skies of my childhood home, where one can see up and up to the stars.
London City, your skies are unclear, your stars hidden.
When the glass of wine is empty I will stop writing, just as the fine hairs on a woman’s upper thigh disappear.
Sadness befell me on my walk when I realised the sun had gone. Still, I kept going; I could not cut it short for lack of colour.
London City, the precipice.

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