Strange words finding their way on a late Sunday night, here in San Francisco. It's funny how we live our lives writing, forgetting, being found. Where were you just now before they found you?
Ten years back, writing in front of Southbank, London. How I miss you, BFI, running from the rain. Films and a cup of Joe. Time has everything, but it has nothing on you.
You don't age. It's only me, as I circle these old pathways searching along this always where. Unfound, unspoken, waiting at the door.
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