Tuesday, 9 March 2010


On the walk home I imagine life with a drivers license in my pocket next to the key of a signified 'home'. It is at a point where the hill steers left I picture packing your words into the door panels and sellotaping what you said under the seats. But my capabilities are provisional, so all I can do is play over the conversation into a dictaphone and stop, rewind.
And play.
Stop and rewind.
Did I get up and leave?
It's what she said when we recognized who stood in the portrait photograph hanging at the bar.

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