pixiepain

1st December 2oo4 He loved that time of morning when London turned it's insides out, and the outsides came crawling back in. When the junkies and crack heads, offended by the sun after the cool blue bliss of night, swept like the tide into doorways and onto park benches. Hands in pockets, he breathed in the hostile loneliness of the city like oxygen, it's melancholy giving him vitality in the same way the whisky in his chest gave him warmth. 2nd December 2oo4 The bar was dim, listless. Vague silver palls of poison tobacco smog clouded above the heads of patrons equally or even more noxious; greying, craggy men with soot, sweat and melanch