Wednesday, 1 December 2010
his quiet other-worldliness
I've mostly been reading poetry and storming through the snow in Doc Martens these past few days. Desperate for sleep and surviving on Lucozade and Ben Whishaw interviews. Taking photographs of frosty trees. I'm going to move to Paris, pretend to smoke Gauloises and wander around obscure art exhibitions to keep warm. I'll probably marry a writer who cannot afford to eat; we'll stand on our balcony barefoot and shiver together, and he'll end up hating me because I'll complain that I can't stand his pensive silence.