or More obtuse Observations from Barland

Love lives in the folds of my scarf.
Love is the jumper on top of the jumper that keeps you warm on a minus day.

Love lives in my boots, love is the polishing and shining till they gleam and sparkle like the ice on the cars on the way home from the bars with the spinning dancers, SWATman and Robin and porno army girls all desperate to have a great time on another party night of their lives, in the snow and ice, braving it, like it’s nothing, like cold never hurt anyone.

And they’re drinking and hoping and none of them want to go home and they want everything perfect and they want that oh so specific oh so special song and they want it now because of a lack of something. That’s love.

Love lives on the top deck of the 344, it’s a seat with a view of the street.
It’s a lost glove on the railings.
It’s the last leaf falling from the last tree standing.
It’s the sound of the crunch of a boot on a snowy pitch, it’s a bastard, a bitch, it’s a scratch you can’t itch, that you can’t live without, it’s certainty, it’s doubt, it’s everything that keeps you in.

Love lives on the 0:34 Southbound, the last tube home, because there’s somewhere to get back to.
Love is everything worth saving.
Love is just this. Amazing.