Beneath the bridge down by the supermarket two lovers defy the odds. At a bus stop where other lovers stare in silence awaiting what comes next, a magpie clutches a safety pin within its beak before leaping into the sky. In my arms at a quarter past six, you turn to dust but then around the corner in a gust of wind, you fall into my arms once more. In a parking lot where it’s summer and winter at the same time, I smoke a cigarette waiting for your embrace and as the animals pass my aching feet, the morning makes way for afternoon, but it’s of no importance. There’s food in some joint opposite the cinema, the place where there used to be a record store back when my virginity was still firmly intact. Eating my traditional English breakfast, there’s a cup of tea followed by a shot of Sambuca for good luck and then I’m in the toilets squatting despite my aching legs and for a second not even death can touch me and then I’m just a man again and the sweat from my body both repulses and ignites me all at once. There are burns on the insides of my mouth as well as grass stains on my knees. There’s a vision of you out of the corner of my eyes as I walk past the old bookstore imagining how many days it’s been since my breakdown and when one version of me waved goodbye, and the other waved hello. I’m being melodramatic for sure, but it’s better to be on edge than to be numb because those who are numb are as used and as pointless as those crisp packets that dance at midnight to an audience of no one. Picking up a new jacket while chewing gum pretending I’m younger than I am, there are girls wearing no bras with nipples bigger than sandcastles, but it’s about as exotic as page three or dumb blond porno. As we rush towards a field drinking beer and chatting shit, there’s a smile on each of our lips as we take what we want knowing we’re stronger than the past and wiser than the future. The land beneath our feet, it’s as useless as it’s always been, and the air in our lungs is without merit. All that matters are the stories we have to tell and the women we have yet to love. Maybe we’re drunk and stupid, it don’t matter none. Just as long as we keep this thing ticking.