The glazed eyes of Churchill stare across the room in the bedroom in which I grew up in, neighbouring the bust of Thatcher and other trinkets, blanketed in dust, and stored here; out of site of the main dinning room, and the entertaining spaces below. A pile of magazines, National Geographical, Architects Journal, abut my faithful desk. The eyes of Frank Lloyd Wright bleakly staring at toward and through the Venetian blinds the divide between the bleak outside and the bleak within.
A blinking light calculates the time on the Bose, and resumes - The Devil and God are Raging Inside of Me - and its been four years since this track has played, and the line "What did you do those three days you were gone" skips and plays continuously. And like Jesse I often believe I'm missing out, and fear my blight is to sly to hold back all my dark.
Outside the rain puts an end to what we've know of the English summer, and this is the fourth consecutive day. During my travel, I would often sit at a darkening window, shadows and lights flailing outside, staring at the face in the glass, whose eyes I once knew. And one simple phone call bought me here, and I wonder how long it will take to tare me away.