It's the twelfth of August, or maybe it's the thirteenth, and I wake up in Balham, Greater London. And I'm staring at the joint where the wall reaches the ceiling, just staring.

And my phone rings, and it's been ringing continuously since seven am. And eventually I give in,get out of bed, walk over to it. It's a number I don't recognised. And a conversation I don't recognise entails. A solicitor.

I'm wearing a Royal Blue JW Polo, 2008, with cream shorts which have blue pin stripe detail and Camel moccasins, which are actually slippers, but who's to know. And I'm this road in Balham, in the suburbs of London, somewhere near a polish church and I'm not really sure where I'm going. I just kind of walk into the morning light. The air, cool yet close and somewhat Autumnal for this time of year. Balham to Warren.

And at the bank I catch my reflection in the ATM whilst I'm entering my pin, or trying to, and I look...fresh...if you discount the shadow under my eyes, the redness of the right, and uneven tone of my rosed skin. Fresh enough for three hours sleep.

Six, four, four, zero. Declined.

And I've done this twice, so I try another ATM, and eventually it gives in and lets me use it. And I withdraw two hundred pounds. And then I use the ATM next to the one that gives in, and withdraw another two hundred. And then I'm approached by what I can only assume is a Maitre'd of the bank? And I tell him, 'I need more'. And pretty soon my Tote is full of twenty pound notes counted and held by red sleeves. And they cant take this.

And as I emerge from Bond Street my phone rings, and I answer it not really listening. And I head to Ralph Lauren, but only make it as far as Hanover Square before it starts to rain. And I tell the person on the other end, mother? That they cant take all they want from her, but they'll never take it from me, and that it's in a tote bag, underneath the bench on which I'm sitting. And droplets stain patches of the maroon fabric deep red as they fall from the canopy. And a man lifts weights in the open air, and a taxi drives past an old couple from the East End, and I feel free.

I'm thinking about writing, about the words on the page, black ink on off white. 80gsm, maybe more. Running the bath. Sitting on the edge, just starting at the white tiled walls. Tempted by the water around my toes. The cool ceramic. And the phone rings, and I'm listening to the ring, just listening. Ring.

Staring now at a the condensation on the mirror. The buds of the Peace Lilly. And something like twenty minutes pass and I'm just sitting in silence in front of a bath of water. Just sitting. Staring.

I'm sitting, kind of, staring at a blank screen. And I can't put in to word what I want to say. And the only thing resonating in my head are the six words I said perhaps three or for times today.

'It's good to see you again'

And really it was. But I wish, in a way, that I didn't see you at all, because now I want to see you all the time. Tomorrow, Sunday, next week.

It's weird to think of all shit that's happened in the two, three years since we were last together. And it surreal to think of who you're with now. And I can't really explain it.

And maybe I'm just over analysing.

I'm staring at the line up of pills that I've been prescribed, listening to clock ticking in the hallway, the washing machine in the utility, the traffic on the Triangle.

Right now I'm thinking about cancelling it all. My current contracts, future contracts, my apartment tenancy, flights to Berlin, various social networking websites, this website, licences, utility bills, enrolments, memberships, flights to London, Brisbane, Paris.

And in my head this summer played out completely differently to what it has. A minute hand ticks over to three pm, a cathedral bell chimes somewhere in the city and the bright sun is tinted by Wayfarers. A girl is drinking Cider from a bottle, whilst the guys throw a Rugby Ball around the green. A train is pulling into Lime Street Station. People are letting, subletting houses, rooms, weekends in various cities over the country. A young girl skips past. Birds fly in the flared sky. The waves crash on a familiar beach. A Car is stuck between the dunes of another. The familiar smell of country side, of trees, the common.


And yet none of this has happened. Nothing.

It's three am, maybe four. And I don't really know where I am. Somewhere between Bristol and London, somewhere off of the M4. Somewhere with bitter coffee. And Styrofoam cups, and this truly is a shit blend.

And through my headphone Bon Iver, The Wolves (Act I and II) is playing. And I'm thinking about the line 'In the morning I'll call you' and I'm thinking, who would I call if I were alone. And I can't think. My eyes are dry and gritty and have been since surgery. And the polished glass of the for-court doesn't help. And my car; Electric blue, hard top, charcoal interior, discreet, but light and powerful enough to push 140 on the empty motorways, sits empty, alone, under the unnaturally bright lights. And I'm thinking we're all alone.

And on the passenger seat, in the glove box, scattered around the foot well, extracted pages of Exit Through the Wound. And it's a story with which I am familiar. A story which I have read, six, seven, eight times now. And there's something soothing about driving at speed and reading from a page, something, uncontrollably relaxing. And I can only remember the first line, the first three words, the lights on my dash. The night.