I've spent the last week in a Garden city on the South-coast. Wearing the same outfit. Red skinny jeans, a limited edition white print t-shirt accessorised
with black three d wayfarers and a vodka stained light charcoal hood, which I occasionally swap for a plumb cardigan. And today I'm wearing the plumb cardigan. And as I'm sitting in the winter sun, smoking a cigarette that someone placed in my pocket, and drinking a black coffee I catch my reflection in window. And my eyes are thick and black and my hair, styled, but messed up, my lips split dry. And my headphones lead the eye to my waist, which is looking lean and prefect. And the soundtrack to this coffee is by Simon and Garfunkel. And this truly is the best of times, and although my head feels like shit, I'm actually looking fucking amazing, perhaps even better than my reflection tells.
And luckily someone is around to take photographs, and if I were to show you a photograph that would sum up the trip it would be this:
And because life can't be all rosy and sweet, my return has shown that my days are mundane and numb. And if it weren't for the three week old Evian water that I found yesterday morning, in my bedside cabinet, I'd probably be dead. Or on a massive come down. And right about now both of these options seem enticing.