Londoners

e, to walk under dark skies, to hear the rustle of trees and experience the consistent tempo, the pace, of life. It all seemed to make sense when days had mornings and afternoons and weeks had Sunday rituals. You were supposed to follow that rhythm each day and somewhere, I began to understand that yes, this is how life is played out. The cycle moves—growth, family, death. All this is blissfully dispensed with in London. Live your life in any way, London says.

Every Londoner must have a story, I was told, but it’s not true. Some people retract when they come in contact with this city, like salt on anemone; they become lesser versions, and pine for the country. But more often than not, just the word “London” was potent and stirred up great emotion. I saw people’s faces twist into disgust, grin unabashedly, wince or sigh, roll their eyes or reminisce. London meant new beginning, hellhole, wonderland, too big, too foul, safety

The day slipped past silently.

a layered wall dotted with depressingly small windows

documents to stick around for long.

fade back into the page.

illegibly small names

adopt that attitude

carry them around with you.

Places make the best lovers. You can trust a place more than you can trust a person as a lover