it was morning after the night. though all time was a abstract concept to one who had been awake since 3 having halloucinations and suffering with a face numbed from cocain.
i have a friend who says the most beautiful silence comes from hiking in big bear in the middle of winter. i disagree. to me, the most beautiful silence comes on sunday morning at 7.46am. in islington, sitting in a square, drinking mcdonalds coffee.

the sun is so buff right now.
it really is.

the appropriate response to any statement which provokes no answer is laughter. and to flick a flower into his hair. everything is so very unsexual and in a strange way survivalist. we've abused ourselves so much that it's a desperate struggle to keep coherent and vaugely sociable.
though noone is surprised. other people we know from other places will be talking about this for months, but really, it's just another heavy night. don't complain about the damage.

at least i know what to do with my legs now.
yeah, you were pretty stressed out about how other people dealt with them.
laugh, flick.  

we mission to find nicotine. there's a dad and a little girl. the sun is warm and my hair gets hot. he trips and does some kind of hilarious aeroplane manouver with his arms to stop himself eating concrete.
we find nicotine and roll pathetic cigarettes. discussions revolve around which town hall is the buffest. islington, which we are sitting on the steps of is buff, but the door is in the wrong place. walthamstow has fountains. hackney is heavy, brent is ugly.

how do you make those bubbles in your coffee?
like this.
i can't do it.
you can't do it by just looking at it.
laugh.
i'm trying.
you're just not a special coffee bubble person.

my eyes close and i rest my head on stone. my hair like straw picks up dirt and i swear, brush it out and remain upright, opressed by dust and debris.i roll my tights down over my shoes. he says i look like some mad girl from a video game. all hair and legs with huge huge shoes at the end.
i say he looks like some advert for highbury council. vidal sassoon hair with a flourescent yellow "highbury festival" tshirt.  

we walk down upper street at our slowest pace on the sunny side, looking into delis and fancy clothes shops, the sun at it's buffest on our heads. we are bare tired.

back at iona's house we roll her cigarettes and watch her sweep dirty water inexplicably into a flower bed.