I don’t think there is anything more beautiful than the city of London during the festive period. The atmosphere buzzes with excitement and tourism as Christmas draws closer by each day, and although the crowds get bigger, there is nowhere else I’d rather spend Christmas than in my home city. A truly spectacular sight at night, too.
…you are all the books you read,
And all the words you speak,
You are your croaky morning voice,
And the smiles you try to hide,
You are the sweetness in your laughter,
And every tear you’ve cried,
You’re the songs you sing so loudly,
when you know you’re all alone,
You’re the places you’ve been to,
And the one you call home,
You’re the things that you believe in,
And the people that you love,
You’re the photos in your bedroom.
And the future you dream of,
You’re made of so much beauty,
But it seems you forgot,
When you decided that you were defined,
By all the things you’re not.
Gatsby was never quite real to me. His original served for a good enough exterior until about the middle of the book he grew thin and I began to fill him with my own emotional life. So he’s synthetic – and that’s one of the flaws in this book.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ellerslie, Edgemoore, Delaware, 1927
Half of me wants to smoke Marlboros with you and stain our skin with ash and ink and blood and sweat and kisses – everything that epitomises the lust that hangs in the air when we enter the same room. Half of me wants to devour you wholeheartedly, at once, until there is nothing left but the whisper of your existence. But the other half of me wants to write poems about you because every love song fits, and every great love story reminds me of us. It wants to dress up in a tiny black dress and feel you caress the dip of my spine whilst we slow dance to dulcet tones of our love’s journey. It wants to write you letters every day of the week so you know what my love for you sounds like; what true love really is.