Wine, wine, and I am caught spinning in a miniature mælstrøm of nostalgia. I am on line reading an old review of a nightclub that closed already in 2003. I used to go dancing there in 1995 with a man who rumbled about dårlig lydkvalitet and whose black t-shirt was suddenly pricked with glowing points when he moved under the black light.
He had the most extraordinary golden hairs on the backs of his wrists. He had a swirl of the same downy wires on each shoulder blade. They made him seem like a hatchling griffin.
I am halfway through a letter to him, but I will leave it spin for a while, cork the bottle and put it back in the cool of the refrigerator, wait until I have slept and dreamt of something else before I send it off to him as he is now, from me as I am now.
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