You look tired.
I am.
I lay down next her small body, my face mutilated. She knew not to hug me, so she placed her little hand on mine and we wept together. It didn't matter why I was sad, just that I was and that was enough, for the time being.

A packet of cigarettes and some gin in the sun. The perfect afternoon, babycakes.

Those were ironic days.

I am not sure what it is. Welling. There's too much, but without it, it's too little.

Sunbathing on the deck. Coke and whisky and the Velvet Underground.

I had red wine in the rain.

If you need me I'll be in the garden, pottering about, with gin blood and tobacco lungs.