Originally published on The Pulp Zine:


I love the nighttime. It used to be for weaving a way home, fluorescent night bus lights and orange taxi beacons. Crisp and harsh, warmed by fried chicken or a burger, laughing and complaining of sore feet and empty purses.

It’s a late night talking, warm and cosy, and not realising what the time is.

It’s stepping outside into the dark, the sky pinpricked with stars and cigarette smoke swirling into the black.

It’s pale moonlight, sleepy sighs and giggles and a baby with a full tummy and a smile on his lips.


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