Image by ian dooley


remembering fragments, shouting truths & crying lies


London, spring, 2012

It’s been about a month since we got married and the whirlwind of chaos that bought that day has taken drastic turns. You’ve lost your job & your mind, everything is contained in this tiny room of drug highs & lows and lows. The black concrete floors and crusty yellow paint make me sick. How can one space have so many tiles and so few windows. The place that used to be my salvage from the cold has become a bed of mouldy emotions and a boiler to small to fill the bath. It’s la

London, sometime between 2011-13.

You’ve turned your sofa upside down and painted eyes on it. You dont think its talking to you, but you do think it’s protecting you from the neighbours who you think are stealing all your stuff including your next film script. I go to your room and feel sick about all the film people making money out of you as I look at a stack of 5 mattresses your sleeping on to avoid changing the sheets. You’ve always got a shirt and tracky bottoms on, fresh from the charity shop, as managi


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