I locked up my office, and headed down the stairs; out into the night, and the cold air hit my face like a Long Island longshoreman wielding a jemmy. I was crossing Charlotte Street; windswept, rainy, dirty traffic, bustling crowds - you know the score - drawing on a cigarette or three or four... Then she stepped out of the shadows: what could she hope to find? Maybe, some strange peace of mind? I could see straight off she needed reassuring words - "It's alright," I said, "Let yourself be safe tonight." But what hope could I give, that could help her choose to live? She was hitting me big time with the major existential questions - this was no small-time, nickel-and-dime philosophy bar chinwagging. You learn to say your name; learn to crawl, to creep; but she was swimming in shallow colours: red, blue and green I could see the effects of rushing through the world etched on her face like an Escher litho; a life of fond farewells left to hang, where your laptop tells when to fly. Her head would be lying tonight on a pillow made of company dreams, so passionless and inbetween, and I could see she was pretty pissed off. Me, I'm not like the other men, who f*** and fight; but even then, you know, I'm still all struck through with them old Mary Shelley blues, sewn-up around heart like a gun. What could I do? I had to let her go, and walk on to my car; by rights, it should have been a 61 Chevrolet, instead it was a 73 Victor with the nearside mirror missing - that's post-modernism for you. I turned to watch her. It shouldn't have been allowed; she stepped back into the crowd, then I realised, you can't make love die. And now, read on...
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