I sit here looking at everything; nothing. I heard you were looking for something. Was it your soul, your inspiration, your heart? What is it? Tell me. I lost mine a few years ago, in between Gower Street and Grafton Way, perpendicular to a body covered in white sheets. I lost mine outside where we used to live, close to Chalk Farm, when a police officer's description of murder by domestic violence resembled a song lip-synced by Taylor Swift. I lost mine every single time I passed a homeless congregation sleeping outside Dreams (The Bed Specialist). I lost it when I finally understood the tragic irony.
Go ahead, do tell. What did you lose? Was it your sanity? I lost mine too, nay misplaced. If I bothered looking, I'll probably find it hidden amidst the lies: this is rather interesting; yes, yes, but of course! Now, the truth is, what I'm really thinking is: butterflies and leprechauns, what does it all mean? Oh wait a second, I smell gasoline! And before I realise what's going on, I'm on fire, I'm burning, and there's no way out. I made this bed (unlike the homeless man on Tottenham Court Road). I made it, I lied in it, and while I did, I lost who I was. Poof. Gone. Like Harry Houdini's elephant. That's alright, I'm sure he'll turn up eventually.
So the question now is: how do I get it all back? Do I put posters up on trees? If I do, what should they say? "Lost Soul: Please Return To Owner."? It's a long shot, too many months have passed, but I have to give it a go.
I have to.