I can imagine her laid out in a car park, hair untied and a whiskey scented ribbon clutched in her hand. I can imagine that as it changes from day to night, from sun to moon, she won’t even flinch. I can imagine a short spell of sprinkled rain and again, no flinch. I can imagine her lighting cigarettes off other cigarettes and thinking how each cigarette is a grain of sand, falling through the cylinder of her existence. I can see her smiling at this thought.
I can imagine her at night on the cement steps of six storey car parks, listening to etiquette through a stolen mobile phone. I imagine her knowing the lines to every obscure verse. I imagine her singing each word in her mouth. Loud enough for only her to hear.
“Some things are best left unsaid”
I imagine her at a party, locked inside a friends room. She’d be alone. She’d be stoned. There’d be only the laptop light, a cool blue glow. She’d be holding a pen and it would be writing.
I imagine her muting sound each time she heard a footstep.
I imagine her to wear a t-shirt in winter. She’d like to feel the snowflakes pinch her skin.
I imagine her writing letters to dead men. Dead men she never knew.
I imagine her in a park. She feeds the ducks. She speaks to tramps. These are the only people who can hear her with no consequence.
She’ll pay them to listen.
They’d listen for free.