It’s really cold. I can’t feel my nose. I want to pull out the orange from the building’s crooked windows and smear it on the sky. Hands stuffed deep inside my pockets I follow the lazy trail of blue-black mosaic zig past tipsy pillars and zag under dancing ferns. I can see myself living in this crush of colour and awkward shape, muttering nasty somethings at the crowds (and their cameras) outside.
Vienna, January 2010.
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I’ve taken to writing (myself) postcards when travelling. I’ve this image in my head, of me, thirty-forty years down the line, going through stacks of yellowing postcards, and thinking about the good old days, a cup of hot chai in hand.
Flying Suitcase 