I have been awake for 18 hours come 12 o'clock. No particular reason. I am in a fucking pesky, sad mood that won't appear to leave me alone until I crack. There's this fantasy I keep having. It comes back all the time. I've dreamt about it. I've imagined it. I've thought I knew where to find it. I'm going to describe this recurring fantasy to you the best that I can.

A building, a block of flats in somewhere in London. Whereabouts in particular is irrelevant, but near a river and in a historic area. The buildings aren't modern, they're ancient, but they're keeping well. I live with a young man, London born and bred. Slick black, gelled hair and razor sharp cheekbones. An articulate fellow, a budding artist, poet, writer, and speaker. He is passionate about the finer things in life. The things that everyday people leave behind. But we live together. We share the flat. The surrounding neighbourhood is quaint and decorated in cobbled streets. There are shops that look like they belong in the Victorian era. Like black wood furnished libraries and book stores. The kind that sell ancient books from a bygone age with a friendly yet mysterious grey-bearded book keeper. This man whom I live with also dresses in Victorian attire. Not forgetting that it is most certainly the 21st century we still live in. And we share a combined obsession with the Victorians, Georgians, Pirates, Sailors, you name it. The street lamps are run on oil. There are enough alleyways to produce an entire labyrinth.

Still, a fantasy is what it is and a fantasy is what it shall remain.