The writer returns. Stories have surged past their conscience over the last few days, but none belong to them. London. So rich in inspiration. So rich in so many things. But not space.
Oh, I missed you, sweet Clutha, missed your rich brown eyes and the flecks of memory swirling within. Let me drift away.
But the writer must stay grounded. No matter how many star-shaped stairways appear in the sky. They must keep their feet planted. Or what? Or you’ll never catch that dream train. The one coming straight for you.
Full steam ahead.
Bubbles may drift away, but watch how they burst.
euananthony 
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