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.
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.