Stone and Bread.

Statues, so many statues. Cemented, chiseled, sculpted, they glisten when the sun shines on their old, Gothic faces. Signs of life, you know? Mark is 23, he's ambitious, he's going to rule the world in a couple of years. Playfield, this land, its all his, his alone, territorial. This particular Sunday afternoon, we meet his long, sinewy body standing erect in appraisal of the City Centre. Every quaint little town has one, hidden somewhere. The City Centre, where heritage and history (however banal) collide and manifest as ruined buildings, or sculptures or just some milestone that says M.G.Road (built 1978).

Today is unlike all other days. Mark has had.. a shift in perspective? No, he's had his belief system collapse into gravel and dust, kind of like the ruins he's inspecting. They're the same, man and environment. The ageing statues have parts of them missing, a broken nose, or a stone gem from a cement necklace. So does he. His mind's a jigsaw today, you see, with all the leading pieces misses.

So tell us, enough with the mindless description, we don't care about that, get to the point, what happened to your boring Hero from Small Town, Third World Country.

Heh. Nothing happened. This morning, he changed his regular breakfast routine of cereal and milk to bread. Just that. Bread. Bread, incidentally tends to mould, green and crumby.

Kind of like life for a 23 year old who wants a lot, tries a lot and doesn't know where to begin. And the statues that withstand the abrasive pressures of time but only breathe when the sun shines.

I'm walking away from him as I type this. He's still standing encompassed in that naked statue's shadow. They're kindred, the shade protects him and she shades him only when she's alive. And he needs to be alive today. Why? Well.

Disenchantment. And Disillusionment. When you're 23, there comes a day when the world is no longer a playfield, your territory and becoming its ruler is suddenly not "practical." And when that happens, you shift from healthy food to self-raising flour and start smoking.

And when that happens, you sneak away for a little bit and stare at beings, etched in stone. Beings that whisper quietly, in your ear, that this earth is big enough and kind enough. Big enough for you to have your own slice of kingdom.

…And that unlike them, you must stay alive even when the sun doesn't shine

Mine.

Green park bench, green over-mowed grass. Warm summer night. My skin was crawling along the lines of his cigarette's curling smoke. He's a real nutjob, one of those English pieces, dirty blonde hair, Oasis fan, sexy drawl. The works. Bohemian, nomadic poet, he would spend his days singing in a gondola if he could, you know? He scavenges around north London, that lazy face with arched eyebrows at every gig. Used to dabble with the guitar, he's written a few songs I guess. They're very good. He gets by. No one knows him. I do.

Me, I'm just a small town girl from a third world country who wants to be a groupie. We're both looking for The Beatles in the dark alleyways of London city. The architecture, the red brickwork oozes that 60's charm I want to internalize. Wide-eyed, starry-eyed. Drugs, sex, rock n roll. Cliched? Yes. Unreal? No.

That fateful night after a particularly grand The Holloways gig, we'd decided to crash in a park. His red wine bottle was rolling on the scant grass, little drops of blood everywhere. That band had bled us, made us robust. Healthy. Life in our hair. "You know you're only here so you get to sleep with one of them tardy guitarists. Its the glamour for you god damned villagers. Ride the band wagon of the talented. Ho hum." My smile wasn't going to lose out y'know. Its true. I WOULD sleep with one of them. Fuck me, but those sons of bitches can play.

"How's your lit course at the university going?" Meh, haven't touched those books in a long time. I didn't feel like conversation.

He got up, brushed his pants, flipped his red hair back. Smoked. Walked. The idle summer breeze was rocking the swing. So restless tonight, the motherfucker. There was scant melody playing from some house in the neighbourhood. Some poor kid trying to play an old Ben Gibbard song.

I got up too. Started swaying to the scratchy tune. The bolt of ember in my hand was about ready to burn me through and so was my head but I didn't care. A poet, a guitar, nicotine and the dream of music. I'm wasting away. The dissolution from being a person to being a character in your own imagination can be real fun, you guys should try it. That summer I WAS the character though. That night in the park was the rest of my life. And it was calm and pretty.

And it was mine.