I wonder. I mean, sometimes I don’t know.
Usually I don’t know.
Years and years and years; it shifts under you and you don’t see it; you’re now who you are, welcome to your life; no, there are no hints about things; yours, all yours.
Most used-up message ever (and also most true).
Up where the smoke is all billered and curled,
‘Tween pavement and stars,
is the chimney sweep world.
When there’s hardly no day nor hardly no night,
there’s things half in shadow and halfway in light,
On the rooftops of London, coo, what a sight!
The most worthwhile moments have been the ones spent outdoors in the city, invisible to anyone else, like everyone else, a basic ball of visual perception and chilly subdermal nerves, lost in a little drawer full of side streets. If you’re like me, in memories it’s always raining. Life, so far as you can piece it back together, is an endless string of trite romance film endings with filler in between them. Everything you know becomes a kind of nostalgia for scenes that never existed; you know that it always sucks in the present, but inevitably, with each new thing you can’t have any more, a sad, wild, hyper-commercial, Helweinesque magic takes over; you drink yourself silly with longing for every one of the poster-framed, posed-and-gorgeous moments of dimly-lit legend that you think you might remember so very well.
You’re so in love with your own broken imagination you wanna scream. Inside your head, you do.
And then in your mind’s eye you run away, laughing.
“Don’t say there’s nothing here to see. Don’t say it.”