Long Time No See
Yesterday I stumbled across my life’s work. It took the form of a spattering of magazine contributions, piled high in the dusty belly of a Soho thrift store, 25 pence an issue.
There amongst the musty clothes, yellowed comics and cracked DVD casings I read my old words, partially unfamiliar and somehow estranged, like photographs of your parents taken before you were born.
I thought they were worth more at the time.
At least they still exist, I guess, even as dog-eared relics. No such honour for tomorrow’s writers, whose children snuff out with a thoughtless flick of a server’s off-switch.
Publishers may be in the business of turning passion into profit, but time’s transformations are far crueller, I think.