Sitting with Diego
the morning’s got its claws in, a hangover sitting heavy on the brain. there’s still a little whiskey left in the blood, sloshing around in the empty tank, burning sweet. we talk the usual shit, love, life, the happiness that fucked off years ago and never sent a postcard. he’s a gentle Spaniard out of
The Welsh Dragon
the winter sun blasts through tinted Welsh windows, and my skin feels it all at once, sudden and warm after the cold grey miles. through the glass, the valleys roll on soft and endless, the long grass bending and lifting in the winter wind like it’s breathing slow and easy with the land. I drift
Charlotte
there I was, rattling along through the grey English drizzle, the underground train clicking under my feet, when I spotted her across the aisle — dark hair falling wild, eyes like midnight streets — and I leaned over, heart going that crazy beat, and asked if I could take her photo, just a quick one