Life is good and my beautiful city fares well. My soul is restored, my freedom unequivocal, untrammelled. A passion's on fire and its glint in my eye. If you don't love me, I'll love the city.

I'd risk everything for its embrace.

Throughout my recent illness i had a fever dream, i was in a city so beautiful my smile split my face in half, the music was so intricate i realised that nothing else mattered. i brought a suitcase that looks like it's travelled, it's not very practical, but that's never the attraction.

There's not a soul on earth worth the terror, not an eye worth the spiral, shifting, sickening and misspoke, it does not ebb but trickle with tied hands and with new bargains. Bargains of pride and bargains of vanity, to bone, to core, to sleep all at once silently. No quick breaths or smoky smile, no locked eyes, to lie alone a crippled child all orphaned at once, no more favoured, no more loved.  Asleep in rags that once were gowns, mottled with dust and dusted with vows. And not in time i drank our city.