outside the wall, egg

Earlier this year I gave a book to a friend cos her name is the same as a character in the novel. I doubt she read it but I wanted her to have it as a momento, and I had too many books on my shelf, but this one was special cos the back cover had a corner bitten off.

A few months ago I found the cover of the book printed on a tee shirt. I was browsing the wardrobe of the music shop when the shopkeeper said they didn't have a medium.

A few weeks ago I met my friend for dinner and though the book wasn't on my mind she said something that made me look to the table next to ours where a girl was working her slice of pizza with fork and knife, and her earlobe was a glossy stone of bright turquoise, and behind her were tables where people looked like cut-outs from magazines, decked out on patio chairs, bodies left out to dry, chests pointing the sky, and on each table was what they called a beer tower that reminded me of a lava lamp.

"Why not?" my friend said, and snapped my train of thoughts.

A few days ago I bought a tiny handmade book packaged in a plastic egg. Handwritten words on thin strips of paper held together by a thread and dare I say my favourite phrase, "encased in its own bubble."

A few hours ago I was thinking how the fighting in Syria and the presidential election should factor into my writing habits.