they live in my world.. why don't I?

Sometimes all I want to do with my life is dream and write and smile secretly but not outwardly. And love faces and be loved and fuck. The only places I want to be are wide grassy staircases with rickety concrete bridges. In wooden flats with narrow red hallways. In alley ways where people are selling wallets made of juice boxes.

There should always be music and people talking. Lots of traffic. Especially 'cross now' lights. Every surface will be covered in words and candy with tropical fruits growing off it, lickable like Willy Wonka wallpaper. Every space should feel new. Even if it is known. Every person can wear a different colour and it will not be black.

No-one will walk away when I am in the middle of writing a story about them.

Whenever I want to know something, someone who knows it will teach it to me until I understand all its sides. I won't ever forget but I will be able to quieten.

All that anyone will ever need to make them happy is a tumbling column of brightly coloured plastic shovels. That is all people need.