Sparks.

These days are magical. I find myself walking slowly, rapturously, late at night. Breathing the crisp air, almost devoid of the dirt, heat and pollution of the day. Taking full steps, languorously. Listening to favourite Coldplay songs and walking home. I have come to cherish this part of the day, have come to look forward to it.

But, most of all, these days are magical. Nothing distresses me more than the certainty of their end. And their certain end being so Close. I can't even honestly wish for them to carry on like this, guilt-ridden, laden with tempt, and their very existence being questioned, again and yet again.

Nothing saddens me more, than the obvious regret I will feel, and nothing could make this better. It stays.

I try to sing a few lines from a favourite song, and look up, alas, sadly in this over-ridden city, romantics can't even see the stars. So I twirl around- dizzily, madly, joyfully, and the few people on the streets must think I'm daft, but can I care? When everything I truly adore is ripping my heart out, can I honestly claim to care what unknown people think of the things I do?

I wrote an unaddressed letter yesterday standing in the train, grey lead running smoothly over paper, again and again, ceaselessly. I love the sound it makes, so soothing. The letter rests at the bottom of my bag, yellowing. I wish I could stamp it and mail it to you.

He talks of overhead costs. We scribble madly in our books, the "Budgeted Overhead Absorption Rate". I want to drown myself in you, live in your life, and all that I can think of is Fixed expenses, and Variable Expenses.

The only thing that is fixed, is this longing. And the only thing that is variable is this longing.

Why won't you realise?

A mad rush, curses and songs, trains and peoples,

A maddening beep, a twin blue light, I'm lost, a smile reluctant,

You can't stay mad at me, you can't stay away from me,

I fall like a grumpy petal, saddened and petulant.