the man who steps on to your life like he needs somewhere to wipe his feet? who writes indecipherable graffiti on the bones of your existence? treating your timeline as a real-world representation of the universe’s own built-in obsolescence.
you know who I’m talking about. yes, he’s a pretty, pretty boy, and yes, he arrives like a shiver in your life, with his goose-pimple eyes and heart-string lips. when you get close to him he smells of rice paper and rainy days. well, he did when I met him. by the time we parted, the smell was of orange groves, freshly printed books and an illegal backstreet autopsy. being delight wrapped up in velvet and having a dining room made of chocolate are no real substitutes for someone mundane that doesn’t leave behind a trail of wrecked planets and bad cases of heartbreak
don't blink. don't even blink. blink and you're dead. don't turn your back, don't look away and don't blink. good luck.
“The dedication of this book is split seven ways: to Neil, to Jessica, to David, to Kenzie, to Di, to Anne…”