Clapham at night time, lights wash the pretzel store, and - we're still there, my love
quinta-feira, janeiro 20
little black book
Still afraid to open that black book – that harvest of empty, pure, immaculate pages – and drill into it with thirsty eyes, wild for filling each bit with lines and words and stains, and pictures of you, pieces of me, with all the stories I’ve fought to keep inside my head, everyday, and only stop when I feel totally empty, cloudless, fearless. Bare on the floor, sweating and exhausted. Beaten. Totally defeated.