We found our feet from Hunter’s Tryst to Jewel. After our skinny dip – well, it was more like a plunge – in to Adriatic salted waters.
We parted ways, after we spoke of feelings of being set adrift on a swollen sea of intangible memories. The place we once called home, walls smeared with the sound of hypnotic drum and bass, now a lofty space in our hearts, or is it a hearse? The death carriage of sympathy, for all that’s over. But we are not over. We have just begun. The track that taints my heart still plays through my speakers, your brush strokes carry my sequins, and my embellishments speak of your words. Enmeshed. ‘Haunted?’ you say. ‘Let’s set up camp and track down with pens the rhythms of the hunted.’
