As we walk over the bending, two art majors push a metaphor into traffic. Elena disagrees whether or not this means we’re done for. There’s no good way to start this conversation. At the bar I can finally flaunt my paycheck. £3.65. You know a week passes at twenty-eight pence per minute, that before poetry there were graveyards toppled over by annotations. It’s a game to remember this much. People that you knew from university leaning against the wall, speaking about the people they knew from university, and maybe you’ve heard of them. But we should get together soon - seriously, it’s been too long. On the radio they’re confident that all guilty parties have been caught and there’s no longer any reason for alarm. We can be sure of that. I use the noise to hide from my friends. Become the kind of drunk that only looks backwards. I think of my father’s uncle, dying from just that. Perfect heirlooms. Our final round. Dear Patricia, your child is playing hopscotch below the poverty line.  Stop airbrushing your workers on the security camera. There’s nothing to do here but watch us. Turning for a fix. Jasmine dies under the space-heater of a rented flat. Folds my beer into three perfect concentric circles. I’d ask you to help me out of this. But when the East-dream drummer starts keeping rhythm with the overground, Elena knows we got a purpose. Even if we end up two streets away, counting on the bartender. Convinced tonight is the night I should tell you I’m failing. And you shouldn’t worry, but ask me about it tomorrow.