Diary
I have been to my favourite cafes to drink coffee, eat pastry and to read. Even cafes have conjured up a personality that I have lugged around as my assortment of life's priceless things. Oh, the kind of cafes I enjoy are nothing significant. They're not fashionable as may be the case, grand or happening.
But rather, they may be seen as little poky things or happy lighted places where ladies gather for a natter after their shoppping. I may name some favourite addresses as the colourful Earl's Court or Kensington's very pleasant high street.
I observe those who lunch or chat with secret delight. I make notes, I write and scribble stories with pleasure and with ease.
For some strange reason, London affords me this kind luxury. There is an instant feeling of connection to a spiritual belonging where my nourishment as a writer and reader is well served. I have been buying books every other day. I feel as if I may die without them.
I make my own bliss. I weave strange gifts from environment, desire and atmostphere. And they don't cost a dime.
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