It’s raining. Neither heavy, nor light, but somewhere in between. Brushing the hair from her eyes with my fingers, each droplet that lands upon her face catches the boozy light shining through the frosted windows behind us. Her coat is damp, and her nose is running. On her upper lip, she has thousands of tiny hairs that sway like stalks of corn in an autumn breeze. She’s subconscious of them, but to me, I desire them the same as I do her breasts and the flesh of her belly beneath her navel. The world spins, but in this moment, we remain anchored. It won’t always be this way, for soon, a harder rain will come and wash the colours of these days down the drain, but there are some moments that stay with us a lifetime. I’ve never quite been able to work out why, which I guess is why I turned to writing. At first, when I looked over my shoulder, there was only darkness, but with each letter came a spark, and then another, and another. Soon, the sparks filled the darkness like a firework, and where once there was an abundance of absence, life began to fizz like sparkling lemonade on a balmy summer’s day with end. All roads, for whatever reason, seem to lead here. This courtyard, at this hour. What lies beyond, and what shimmers ahead, pumping through my heart like the purest of drugs known to man. Rubbing her hands in mine, she lets out a mouthful of air, and together, we watch as it rises. Her mouth remains open, and with a look of childlike fascination, she whispers her hopes and wishes with a tongue numbed by alcohol. Perhaps I keep coming back to make sense of her words, or I’m seeking a measure of peace that exists in perfect isolation from the world at large. The world in question is a world based upon the principle that if you can’t see it, it doesn’t exist, and that if your passion isn’t driven by gain, such passions are best left to wash down the drain along with all those colours we’ll never see the likes of again.