His intentions are warm, his intentions are good. His hands are blue white in the cold air. His breath a plume. He walks with a slight sway, the guitar case pulling down his right arm. An old sofa coming apart in a musty attic, a lost pair of shoes. We always fail to make good impressions, we always hurt those we love. A place only slightly worse than heaven. A whisky bottle and a faded polaroid. A frayed corduroy jacket. A ticket to see a band. Nothing worse than another dried up angsty poet or frustrated musician, down on his luck but with a beautiful heart. It’s such a cliché and as worn out as the paint in the damp flat he undoubtedly lives in. The words carry you down like a coracle in a river, twisting and floating out to sea.
A lighthouse on a northern coast. The arc of water against the rocks. The tang of salt. A stiffness in the wind. Forgotten places. Dead coastlines. The Aurora Borealis flickering above windswept gulls. A fake star shining in the darkness, bringing the ships in.
And he walks, guitar case thudding against his thighs as he walks along the coastal road.