This is a season of sleeplessness. Fog hangs over the city like a spell. Like we should all be sleeping, waiting for a prince to come. But we're awake, and our dreams tumble about our ankles like so many drafts. Trees scratch at the sky with their bare limbs, and I wrap myself up and go hunting for Sleeping Beauty.
There's a forever boy-child in Hyde Park, and seven dancing princesses just waiting to be found in Kensington Palace. This is a city of fairy tales (this is also a city of broken promises, but the two go hand-in-hand). I would trade you a thimble for a kiss, if you asked. I would gift you my entire empire, built as it is of worlds and wishes. The stories taught me that you never get anything without giving something in return. And we like to think that we tell different stories nowadays, that we're all grown up, but...
The thing is, sometimes the 'grown up' stories, they do turn into fairytales. And that's where it starts to really get dangerous. Someone's hands get chopped off, another ends up in a wolf's belly. Bricked up in walls, or held captive by amorous fathers. This city burns so brightly it eclipses the moon.
Things that dwelt in the darkness and went about seeking to do evil and harm; Bogies and Crawling Horrors, all came out when the Moon didn't shine
-The Buried Moon (an English fairy tale)
Wonderful poetry. So many unencumbered images; you have a way of words. You've made me think of all the troubles I have at school: i write so much and sleep so little. Thanks for the music (especially Nick Cave!)
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