Apart from the heart-wrenching beauty of Jeanette Winterson and low-maintenance, unconditional, long-term friendship, the best friend has also introduced me to Astor Piazzolla. I urge all of you to go listen. Suggested:
Volume - Loud
Lighting - Dim sienna orange
Company - None
Condiment - A good red-wine induced drunkenness
Prose - The sort you write when you're drunk, with a black felt-tip pen, in barely-readable cursive.
**********
Reading Murakami always gives me strange dreams.
2 nights ago I dreamt I was in a tiny Japanese flat [Scene 1], kneeling by a square cherrywood table, talking.
For once we talked away from the cigarette smoke and curious eyes,
Voices muted and clean.
I don't remember what we talked about,
But it must have been nice,
I woke up with an unusual fondness.
It could be the book, or my recent passionate hunt for the soundtrack to Lost in Translation.
Next thing I recall I was driving down what looked like Bridge Road (Richmond), but in New York [Scene 2],
Speeding down the centre fairway, tyres sliding off the tram tracks.
I came to a sudden stop outside a jewellery shop.
Skipping inside, I spot the best friend and yell out 'Surprise! I'm in New York for 2 weeks!'.
We go shopping in SoHo [Scene 3], with an ex-SCGS classmate, turning corner after corner, where all the shops look the same, where I once sighed at the thought of living in one of the apartments.
I was manic with happiness.

I sense it's all saying something.
Need
to
get
off
the
arse
and
do
something
about
what
I
Want.