por que no estaba

I get home after cycling back from Dalston.
The front page story is that riots mar the opening of the Americas summit.
It brings a smile to my face.
A smile that has been a long time coming.

At the theatre, a man who looks like he has too much money to spend on cycling gear is left speechless.
And the play? Now there's the rub.

Conversation with a shadow figure over beer. A man who doesn't remember me. For I too am a shadow figure. Shadows can barely remember their selves. The shadow figure might hold the whole compendium of secrets locked within his features. Then again, so might I.