I could live my life on filter coffee in diners. As long as it’s served by a woman in a floral apron called Martha or Betty who calls me sugar. And the table top should have a black and white chequered pattern on it.
Trace the shape of a pencil on my cheek with the nib of a fountain pen, tickling like quill feathers, my hair caught up by a typewriter key clip, my head full of ways to write but not ready to actually do any. Tattoo words of dubious meaning on all extremities, to provoke questions and create stories in the mean time as you walk under libraries and past galleries and jerk back while passing butchers.
