Friday Nights

jimmi campkin

I’d spent the evening drinking wine and sketching, writing and dancing around my house with all the lights off and all the windows open, as a keen but cool summer breeze blasted through and I danced with my curtains, against my curtains and around my curtains.  Barefooted, in pin stripes and a black vest, I hear the laughter outside and watched as the light sank away and the darkness filled the spaces until there was no more space, just black lit dimly with faded neon yellow, like the final performance of an old and desperate actor.

I left the house, withdrew some money and looked for drink and eyes.  Walking the narrow streets in the dark, I could only focus on a specific point in front of me and suddenly all the past melted away into nothing and I walked alone inside a dark tunnel that is rumoured to be…

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