Delved in to my drafts. The posts which didn't quite make the cut. Located a little sparrow of a reflection haphazardly formed years ago as I perched in an unfamiliar coffee shop in a now familiar row of St Pancras shops.
"A pot of tea, gorgeous ceramic cup (that narrowly escaped abduction in to my bag) and a table within a café providing a view across the lower St Pancreas International floor. As the world walked by I pretty much sat gazing. It’s incredibly therapeutic.
Stood in the door read the sign ‘....'"
Can't for the life of me recall the sign. I photographed it. Lost it. It was poignant and yet obviously not so memorable enough for it to stick. I was lazy. So lazy. Photographing. Nowadays photographing happens behind eyes, so recollection is not determined by something somebody said, or in this case something written, it exists in a snapshot of scenery touched with fading colouring. In turn tapping in to the internal recording software [o] triggering the whole scene to play [>] - so touchable. A shift to the past called upon by the present. [stop]
Does THAT make sense?
I found a page. Or more the page found me. No. Page found itself. It's the same page, yet it exists in two totally differing worlds. Guess I'm sharing a page, or attempting to share a page. Having absence from page sharing I'm unsure of the rules - who writes first, who turns the page, who determines when to break, when to full stop and capital letter?
Suppose investing in two pens may be a starting pt.
