His place in Dalston. Door wasn’t locked. Mate stood there for a second, laughed, then asked if we wanted a beer. We kept going. I came looking at the ceiling.
Tag: Overground
The white one. Of course the white one. He offered his jacket. I offered nothing back except a very wet anecdote.
Beautiful at midnight. Tragic at 4am. Someone’s cousin DJ’d, the wine was warm, and I snogged a man whose name I still cannot spell. Classic, really.