Waffles and guns

I saw a man; it was one of those brilliantly clear days. He was feeding the pidgeons, but they were not pidgeons, they were seagulls and crows, and they were everywhere, scattered at my feet, also in the morning, many hours later, before the sun had risen: flying against the wind, I held onto my cardboard coffee and the city looked like a film, dirty and cold.

I thought about which songs to sing; I thought about April and tying everything together. It’s been a year since I considered the house with pictures of crying children in the cellar, the Narnia street lamp outside of the kitchen window: since I sat, facing the sun, sharing my cigarettes with other girls, with other worries. I thought about which songs to sing; I still sing the same ones.

There’s seagulls, and crows, and I am somewhere else, and next time, I’ll be somewhere else again.