A cider, a beer and a pair of flushed cheeks. Slightly tipsy on your way back 'home'. All these beautiful people. But it's time to say goodbye now. Or maybe a see you later.
Three weeks left. Go on, have another pint of fun before it's too late. Before people turn into shadows, before you are lost in translation, and before the ladybird metamorphoses into a beautiful butterfly. Oh shit no. Not again.
Home is where the heart is they say. But where is your heart? It seems the miles are getting longer. Kilometres rather. Crashing into a back-reflecting mirror. Runaway.
A trip to the wobbly loo on the train gets you thinking. You haven't done that in a while. Or probably you don't even remember you did. The truth is, there is nothing left to fear. Nothing left worth fearing.
Tour guide said that the four stages of life are learning, earning, spending and ending. Well I, I guess I'd rather be stuck in the first stage. For a while at least. He also said writers are lonely creatures. Well I, I guess I'd rather be lonely than alone. Because tonight the sunset got the best of me and I'm high and I'm writing.
And it may not be the best piece of Oxford literature ever written, but sometimes as it turns out, it's not about being the best. Sometimes it's about giving it your all time and time again.