you

»You, my boy, carry the load of eternity.«

Piccadilly, in his cups this long white afternoon in the Farringdon Road.

Frank says, »That is a load of horse pucky.«

Piccadilly wishes for French fries, hot flint under his feet in summer, an empty bar in a place he remembers vividly. A word like Boston in the white afternoon.

[Communication in here is impossible, I was told, but I'm back, Julianne. Are you out there?]