There’s a man in the phone booth already. Whether he’s dead, that’s 50/50, but the pendulum of drool swaying from his chin means he can probably move. I flip a coin in the hand that’s not holding a bouquet of carnations, kick the door.

When torrential rains came, my house flooded. Suffering from flu and high fever, there was little I could do to escape.

The boy was covered with birds. They found him before the rescue crews had got that far. I managed to get out with my camera but it was all spoilt now, all gone to Hell.

I retch into the stained porcelain until my stomach is a twisted knot. Empty now, there is nothing but gasping air, a sheen of sweat coating my forehead.

He walked down out of the hills, stopping only to wet the handkerchief he had tied around his face to keep from breathing the smoke and ash, his path a broken highway littered with burnt cars and forgotten corpses, his destination nothing but a direction, east, towards the coast, where he could only hope to find someone for a simple greeting...

Yellow.

Red.

The colors jump, dance and multiply in the viewfinder of my camera, in and out of focus, zoom and wide angle.

We’re standing hand in hand, Mad Molly and I, watching the wreck of the Matilda slowly bubble its way to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. My first thought, standing shivering and wet on the rocks of Marina del Rey, is that this is not as cool as the movies make it seem.

You are so beautiful right now. In the dark. Lying there, still and mysterious on the bed. Still asleep, I want to wake you up to see your magical grin, but a few more moments of peace seem so right.

Above him, the traffic light blinks with the malaise of worn out souls. Yellow, nothing, yellow, emptiness, yellow, quotations filled with the unsaid words whispered from a single bulb blinking on and off the command, use caution.

Thomas lay lifeless, like he was taking a nap, on top of the quilt. There was still a faint aura glowing around him, but it kept fading. Eudora, their Himalayan cat, was purring in a ball at his side.

As the autumn strips the leaves from the trees leaving them naked and magnificent, frozen in their aged beauty, the London fog descends upon the streets. Its pavement cold and frosted.