Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.
it holds me to something (you, now). I love editing!
kind of mythopoesis
that is unstable and lets me operate in that discovery mode that i can create within and also produce works from.
...
The only real Londoner remaining is old, bitter, kept around for entertainment, defined by tropes from 30+ years ago. They play gangsters in films, or they work in a pie and mash shop, or they go on Business Insider's YouTube channel to tell you about their crimes. And they somehow still find the time to spend all day hanging about cafes and pubs for you to bump into, to remind you of Real London.
I catch him on his way to the bar, telling him about this old racist failed actor that I'm avoiding. That I'm failing to confront. I get the sense he's avoiding people too. We get our drinks and find a corner. We chat for a bit. He's managing just fine.
"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."
The Hatton geezer (fuck off) is emptying his pockets, searching for the silver rizlas he apparently has. He refuses to take one of mine (also silver) because the tobacco I'm giving him is already too much to ask. He tells me about the guy who can do 50g of Golden Virginia for a good price, the guy who every other man over 50 knows. I'm not interested.
"I'm only attracted to you", he replies. "Like, you only."
"No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"
i have read not even 1 book