Thursday, 9 January 2014


It gets dark before I’ve even got a toehold in the day, but somehow it’s okay. It’s okay because I wake up uncannily invested in all my friends’ grins.

Imagine them now, making out in blanket forts. Be a puppy for the afternoon and take this image between your teeth and say Hararghargharghargh. Be a fool, stay afloat, be glad you are bound to these humans with all those years of string.

I allow myself parmesan in the afternoon and linebreaks wherever I please. I plan to give up on working and throw myself in the bath.

This morning’s hangover is a sweet and loose thing that crosses continents and loops gently round the shrugged shoulders of people I haven’t seen in all too long. I miss everyone and everything, but the missing is delicious.

The distance is soaked in junipery nostalgia and the hurt is a squishy soft toy with their names in the stitches. Hararghargharghargh, I say, when I take it in my teeth.

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