His heart vaults over fleeced clouds, flies through the blue-golden sky. Cars swing by like waltzers. Passengers lay into rushing air that might carry them to the ends of the earth (if they weren’t just going home.) Some parents snog on the pavement, her sandals colour-match her dress. At ten to ten, he crushes the voice of his mother making cowboy puns; straightens his spine, widens his shoulders. He’s been out at night for ages, he knows these kind streets but he remembers winter: when he hunched and the night air attacked and the darkness used to seep inside. He styled it out, he could always style it out but tonight he doesn’t. Tonight, his stride is strong and true. He is bare armed, unlocked, unsheltered…..
Maybe it all starts here, maybe it all starts now.
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