This little guy is called Big Ted
Unfinished Prose (Expect A Rewrite Soon)
Scrambling through shoebox to shoebox of old polaroids and photographs taken with disposable cameras (multipacks from boots). Dirty lenses and light bleeds, photographer armature, a know it all, capturer of fragmented memories.
It has become late and late has become early as the sky through the blinds becomes bright again, but still I search haunted. An image I can not find; it’s of you and now I’m unsure of wether it’s true. Did I dream it? The way you were stood mid stride, pale green jacket (or was it blue) draped over your shoulders, as you slowly parted your perfectly brown hair. As you looked up into the camera you became embarrassed and shy unaware it was gazing upon you.
You never did like your picture being taken so you pleaded with me never to show a single living soul.
I think the looks starting to grow on me. Now to cut the tags off.
