Hapless drifter standing beneath the Westway. You’re looking for something but you can’t find it. Where are you now? At this moment? Thin futon mattress on bare wooden floorboards. Big red sleeping bag, half price, lies rolled out on it. Identity bracelet draped from an angle poise like some religious trinket. Above the cars pass. Thousand of tons of concrete. Her hand was steady, assured. Concentration in her eyes. The kitchen cold. Metal framed windows. Condensation running. Coffee brewing. Details. Architectural details. Date those windows. Forties, fifties. She talked about colours. I listen to her voice. Internal part of her externalising thought. Random thought, we. I let you sleep. I don’t want to disturb you. Maybe you got up for a pee or some water. Pouring coffee into a little white bowl his hand shakes and he shivers. From the kitchen window you can see Westfield: second largest shopping mall in Europe. Stands in black M65 combat jacket staring at the shoes in Prada. Looking for silver but only finding black patent leather. More coffee down in Waitrose: he has a card for complimentary refreshments. I wanted to ask her her favourite colours. I drink the vodka straight from the bottle. Take a bite from the chicken sandwich. It took three coats of enamel paint to change the toy gun from Orange and Blue. Tin lid indicated matt Black but it’s clearly not. She is assured. She has back up. She is an intuitive improviser. Ancient vagabond strolling down to White City. Hearing the applause. Far away. You in his soul. The night wet and cold. Skin quivers.