You can look up anything on the net, but you can't find the things that are in your head all the time, the monstrous, amorphous shifting of your soul.
Colour. White space bursting with colour. Three girls. Three tones. Chocolate, honey, palest cream.
My little black book who travelled with me to Toronto and Cuba, who lay open on god knows how many beer stained bar tables in Munich while I scribbled out my alcoholic anguish…
Mesmerised by modulating maps (damn Nabokov, your mischievous dust lay safely inert in the print of the tenth-hand copy of Transparent Things I picked up at a yard sale in Toronto, until I opened it a