Saturday, 16 April 2011


I have become platonically enamoured with a nineteen year-old Russian boy for one particular reason. I was lying on the floor with my head under his desk, to rest, while he ignored me and continued doing some kind of film editing thing. I started talking about the children's book I am writing, outlined the plot, explained what I am hoping to convey through story, being out of place, the sorrow that comes with unsuitable surroundings, the physical manifestation of despair through metal diving suits and sinking parrots. He paused in his work, cultivated a wicked grin to throw in my direction, declared the story to be 'emo' then carried on doing some kind of film editing thing.

Surely one has to become platonically enamoured with anyone who can convey, in two seconds, that they have heard and properly understood, have sympathy for your process and value your presence enough to cheer things along with playful irreverence.

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