I learned how to make Japanese style rolls from you, my dear, already departed, friend. You, who could not sleep without downing a full bottle of vodka by dawn. Among the memories I choose to keep, I pick that night we dined that well loaded dish that got us both amusingly drunk, who would have thought we should have used water instead of wine to cook that rice. And you, my dear Sunday partner, with that magic ‘cork popping’ in the morning waking me up. Those bubbles fizzing through the day and running through our veins, all twenty-four hours straight, while our three songs played on an eternal loop that felt so refreshing, to us, on every single lord’s day of each week for as long as we celebrated our ‘flatmate’s love’ at Blythe Road; behind that door 150 numbered, coloured deep blue; the one on the left as you make your way into the street coming from the centre of the town that homed the infamous Gin lane’s era, the dirty Jack the ripper’s population’s clean up and the risky Harry Potter’s adventures. To eat with one’s hands, it’s such a pleasure. To lick the fingers sucking up all those flavours. tasting life raw. Umamis, natural wines and music vibes. The keyboard in my hands helps me with the releasing of my accumulated passion trapped inside, heating up to the boiling point, steaming out one word at the time. Here I am, as a result of nature’s affairs and society’s immoral ways. My freewill, though overpowered, still feels wild and rebellious. Tell me lies, I tell life. Let me buy into the idea of uniqueness, into the idea that you will never meet anyone like me again. I came, I saw and conquered. One day, later on, if I can remember this all, I will tell my story to the one sitting on the table next to mine, in a shopping mall cafe, during daytime, while everyone else passes by, unaware that I was, as well, here once.

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