Concrete and Clay

Last night I felt the urge to see a film, I put out my cigarette and put on a shirt. Two sprays of cologne and I'm ready; quick junky check, phone, card and keys:

Roger. Roger.

I close and lock the door behind me, tourists and traders surround me, the biegel shop full of freaks and satires of east end life. A group of 20 or so bin men in fluro neon yellow jackets dazzle my eyes and leave me relying on sound and smell for a fragment of the day. I hear three or four different languages, Spanish, French, Japanese and some Bangla dialect interrupted by throat clearing and lung butter loosening. I can smell the sun heating the rubbish in the truck and thrown all over the streets. The remains of a fish stall, thousands of pink prawn tentacles and shrimp head congregate around a blocked drain gargling milky blue water. I pause to think in Technicolor...

A diary of a re-posessed man: day 22

I feel better. Better than I did. I swam in the ocean, I travelled the coast of italy watching the waves from the train. I witnessed a wedding and I let a tear slip. I got burnt. I read a book. I ate pesto and drank peach ice tea. Now I'm back. The sun shines in London, I follow the beams and skip the shadows.