Stagger out into another cold morning without a coat. Or underwear. It’s probably on that guy’s floor somewhere. Under the bed. On his voyeur dog, who knows. Fuckit. There’s a dresser full of the things back in your apartment.
It’s gray and foggy, like you picture London being all the time when you’re listening to the darker side of pirated 90s Britpop.
That guy at the bookstore practically shoved the comic into your hands, music is magic, whatever. And paid for it too, so not reading it would make you kind of a bitch. If you cared about such things (and you do). You read it because he was cute and started hunting down the music out of curiosity.
Tenish-years-earlier and an ocean away, how did they know to write songs about you?
Life in a Pulp song kind of sucks, you know. It doesn’t make much sense, no.
Ow. Head. Your eyes are the unholy undead, and even the halfassed charcoal filter sunlight hurts them. Burns them, with a hiss on the s-sound.
And it’s too cold on the street for this top, but you were too hot in it last night in the club.
This is how Delilah Myland started her new year.