All those things.

Pier after pier.
Our icecream's are flying beyond the arcades,
Indian feet are freezing in the cold water whilst
I am looking for more shells to my imaginary collection.
Back and forth on the seaside. Strawling. 
Hello tide, come wash us away. 
We cycle in the middle of London, on the wrong side of the road,
Terrified, happy. The red buses are close to my side, 
But I focus on the monument and the big ben. 
What else is there to do, on a casual day in London.
We catch our breath underneath the London Eye. 
We stand on both sides in Greenwich, watching London and its citizens and tourist.
They look like ants and we own the world. 
My Magaluf-secret stops by, says hi. 
There is a lot more to say. But maybe another day. 
We are having the best days of our lives and we know it. 
Punk steps into the scene, my friend is moshing with his people,
and I am just an observer. I am Bon Iver. But it is neither winter, nor even autumn yet.  
Pier after pier.
A bigger arcade, a beautiful city. 
The lanes inspire me, red drinks for a living.
Laughing, speaking.
The madhatter, the rabbit are greeting us, 
They are beautiful, along with Moomin.
My dearest pseudonym isn't far away.
Up to the Wolves we go. 
We fall asleep on a bench in the sun, 
Art is looking at us and we are looking back. 
Triangles are our favourite shape and 
the base is louder than ever before. 
With lots and lots of jokers 
- let's tesselate. 
Another day. I see the seventies compressed into one person and his son.
I play boardgames with my generous temporary flatmate, and I happen to be the scrabble king.
My pseudonym speaks too fast, full of nervousness. T-24, snart är du min. 
And by the way, today should've been my birthday.