Ella. What happens now is we dance.  We prove ourselves worthy by proving ourselves wrong.  We write our texts upside down and drink our coffee with milk...human milk, because anything else would be unnatural.  Half 11.  Half a man.  Half a mind.  But we will see this through, somehow.  Go back.  I am in Glasgow hanging from the ceiling.  Staring.  The blood rushes to the head.  My face is forming a smile and in that moment I am happy.  

Through the silence I hear movement.  It is the 17th day of April 2013.  It sounds as if Jenny is rearranging the books on her shelf and having trouble deciding on the placement of the plants.  Soft grunts come from Simon's room and I can only imagine him either struggling with his second set of press-ups or struggling to finish the pakora he ordered with his takeaway pepperoni pizza.  I took note of the beam of light shining through the slight opening in the thick yellow curtains and how the floral pattern was at the same time comforting and depressing. I took my pen.  The words came easy.  

Rising up just to rise against, the sun is overhead that feeling is gone
I pour some tea, I pour for two, before i realise its just me without you
The records on and Ella still sings the blues
"the dream i thought was mine, is gone".

*            *            *

The night before.  We were at hers, and I found Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Blues on vinyl.  Pleased with my discovery among the multiple Abba sleeves, I put the record on and set the table.  The menu again consisted of quinoa and rocket and silent stares.  Much like nearly every night prior, with the exception of Mondays (I played poker at a pub down in Finnieston every Monday), I finished the bottle of sparkling wine and watched the start of some deep sea documentary while she carried on facebook conversations with ex-lovers and lovers to be in-between drawn out and repetitive rants about how she had no friends and how no one wanted to include her in anything and how she was a terrible artist and how every one else was the miserable cunt, not her.   I woke up the next morning, made my tea and wrote the music to Ella as I sat in the warm bath of light coming through the large east facing windows of the large 3rd floor tenement. When I heard her wake I packed my things and left, but it would take nearly two more years and her being fucked by several of my mates to realise we couldn't be friends. 

*            *            *

Language.  You ask for cheese and I ask you to repeat yourself.  If we are lucky it is a part of the maturation process.  But some of us only live once; and between smashing glasses and sips of beer we are cleaning and sending invites for candy crush.  So if you were lucky enough to be born white in the western world, then by all means...crush that candy.  YOLO.