"Didn't you hear me?"
My words fell on your deafness like smoke on a widow. Luckily for us both then, that someone had been here before and they left their trail of resistant finger-tipped-words on the window.
"...seriously I have a complaint to make."
I am currently not sleeping...staying awake, listening to tapes and working late. Last night I spent all evening in the upstairs bar of The Cambridge, on Cambridge Circus. The 38 bus was the only way to get back as the trains had stopped running out of Charring Cross.
Tomorrow I'm moving out of Speedwell House and into a bed-sit in an old villa in Peckham Rye. There is a garden and the upstairs room, which I'm moving in to, has a doorstop cast from David's lips. The bed has a Victorian iron-bedstead...you can feel its history. There are no ghosts, but you we can feel the deaths and births that came before us. Virginia Woolf née Stephen, sleeps down stairs and has a private door to the bathroom. In my sketch book you wrote...
The only cure for insomnia
is not to sleep.
3.32 am
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