Tuesday, 19 July 2011

I awake with a sharp intake of breath. 1204:11. Its not until 1204:48 that I inhale again. Panic attack. Realisation of mortality.

There are two of us, sitting in Southgate, an espresso, a tea, talk of travels, of life. Of living in a new apartment... post graduation, of fitness and health, palladian architecture, rents, landlords, contracts, life, social scenes, contacts we've made, could make, break.

He's sleeping with Prince Valium tonight.

I can't breathe. Unbutton my shirt. Three down. If this were a date I'd probably try and nail you, you know this. We jest about it often. The way good friends can. I can filter, and count on one hand the acquaintances from friends. You're always on that hand.

1123. Three minutes to make the station. London? Perhaps. Call me sometime, you owe me lunch.

2 comments:

Tim in the City of Angles said...

You've been on my mind a lot the last 3 days. I was going to write and ask you when we'd hear from you again, but after your year from hell, I thought I'd leave you to your well-deserved break and pester you again come September. But here you are and it's like hearing from an old friend, which you are. Hope all is well.

Still in China, until October, I think.

Jeaux said...

B - r - e - a - t - h - e . . .

Nice snapshot.