12 December 2014

It's a peculiar cross between ritual and pilgrimage, Henny. I go out and buy the weirdest coloured flowers, hurl them into the undergrowth at that place, spit and curse on the B1077, put on some music that's guaranteed to make me cry and come home. And the men in white coats take one step closer: when they finally get here, you'll have to move over, so I can sit next to you. I wish. Boy. My boy, my seven-years-lost boy.

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