And I don't know how much longer I can harp on about being lonely before all my bone marrow turns to silt or concrete and I forget what social interaction ever really felt like. I don't know how much harder I can hanker for some company before I start speaking in strange tongues and terse riddles and entertaining thoughts of a v. watery suicide. And the only thing I can think to do is sell all of my pop records and bolt for somewhere. Save just enough money for a desposit on some east-facing bedsit where I might swing my legs out over the sash windows whenever the weather is mild, and tack tongue-and-groove up all over the lowermost half of the bathroom. And I'm so enchanted by this idea of sweet city living that I keep buying things and squirreling them away in boxes under my bed; a new Tord Boontje light fitting, a set of six old sideplates, a sort of ceramic chopping board with little strawberries on it. And I am so hellbent on this idea of making a run for it that I can think of absolutely nothing else but big sturdy mixing bowls and madeleine pans and milk jugs and enamelled colanders and fancy glasses and rolltop bureaus and duckdown cushions and winter quilts and those wires that stretch from either end of a fire escape and on which you air all your smalls and delicates. I want to make friends! I want to cook for company! I want to meet a girl and have syrupy clinches with her in amongst the pots in the pantry! I want parquet throughout and to rely entirely on my stereo and to keep a bottle of creme de cassis alongside the vintage scrabble board and go from strength to strength to strength. I want comrades! Likeminded folk! I want us all to amass there after hours and bellow things out into microphones. I want to share secrets while stashed under the coathooks and forever be frequenting all the local borough fleamarkets. I want to have books spilling out from near enough everywhere, and to always have a bunch of stock or snapdragons or dahlias or sweetpeas or spiraea or camelias on either the sideboard or the nightstand.
