Where are your friends? London, early in the morning, another day goes by. As the sunset tries to reappear, the pouring rain drops as a curtain showing who is the majesty around here—a little chill but not too much, a cup of tea, of course, and cheers. From my window, people pass by and walk fast to get to the underground. A "not so young anymore" lady, dressing in night shoes and walking noisily, she has a resemblance to an 80s entrepreneur, with long legs, a black skirt, a black jacket and a white shirt, makeup on, heavily. I open the window, and there's a taste in the air, rough and thick as the rust of a boat pin, an atmosphere of uncertainty, but a promise of everything, a new day to live, to hope and to regret. A lesson to look for, a post-it from yesterday, and some notes that I left for myself. I need something stronger, went to the kitchen, a coffee will be nice. That reminds me that I have to buy some stuff today, everyday errands to keep ourselves busy and us
