We grew up in the greys of West London under the dull roar of the M4. You were two years older than me but numbers never meant anything back then. I suppose they mean everything to me now. In the urban Summer we grew up sweaty and dirty in second hand clothes, not in poverty but not completely without. The house became our playground until we out grew it and it became a prison and we looked longingly out onto the streets waiting for our lives to happen. I remember the day our computer picked itself up out of the 80’s and revealed a set of moving images in the form of what was it, an Idlewild cd? We were so deliriously happy. We played that cd over and over again, the computer shuddering under the strain of our excited demands. I never even really liked that song. Almost 20 years later I am still here but those days have passed. I wonder if I’ll ever really feel anything again, I certainly don’t feel happy. Every waking day is a painful reminder that I am still alive and alone, craven in my polemic stand off, looking at the world through a dirty eye piece of an empty gun. In these solipsisms I forgot that romance ceases to exist. At the end of Bukowski poem, you’re still alone, it doesn’t matter how many quotes you repost on your tumblr. In any case it seems my very existence is commensurate with my misery. I want her and she doesn’t want me. I want to be happy again but instead I have no affect at all. Those London summers seemed so blithe and free and maybe one day I’ll go back. In whatever form.