The most handsome boy on my tube home. In cricket whites, lugging a bag the size of himself. Grubby. Happy. He looked as if inside him were a hundred tiny candles, all flickering through his skin.

London feels like grit at the moment and I hope I am an oyster and I hope it makes a pearl of me and does not re-surface me like a rough track or suffocate me like men who fall into grain silos and drown in tiny flecks of grain.

Read this:

No really. Read it. China Mieville wrote it and it thrums, it tumults out and says everything London makes you feel. It explains why you end up (do you end up?) weeping suddenly on street corners or trying to ignore the way your bank balance hums at the edge of your consciousness like a fridge, spoiling an otherwise silent vista.

It might move you to do. To do what I am still working out and if you know please tell me.

Otherwise news is little. I fell down stairs today and can’t really bend my arm. It was so unspectacular for so much pain.

My housemate is playing the violin and I wish that was what existed, and that the rest was as ephemeral. Perhaps.

I am heavy and saddened, overproved like bread. I wonder what we are here for and if anybody can whisper it too me before I disappear behind quick whooshing doors and fly off.