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A COLLECTION OF THOUGHTS, PHOTOS, ONLINE REGURGITATIONS AND CYBORGIAN MENSTRUATIONS FROM A LONDON BASED ACTOR, PERFORMER & THEATRE MAKER (NICK FINEGAN)

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Skin. Stretches. Moves. Muscle. Flexes. Changes in the temperature.  

A man alone on a pale pink stage. Twitches. A toe. A finger-tip. Flickers. And flickers of moonlight filter through the rafters.

Your best friend came into the cafe where I work today and we gazed into each other’s eyes across a deep rip in time. Her pupils glistened (reverberating) with the distance of years. 

. . . 

She’s showing me pictures of the little girl that was just a bump in her stomach when we last crossed paths. 

. . . 

It was nice to see her.

At first it made me nervous.

And then it was nice.

Her eyes echoed many things. 

We both felt sorry.

I think.

I think we both felt sorry.

We both felt far from each other.

She said that you’ve moved to Berlin and I remembered when we were there together. 

Alone together in Berlin.

I remembered walking down a street with you and Joe and a that guy whose name has slipped from my mind, you know the one who always wore the cool leather backpack? 

I hope you two aren’t fucking again. 

But it’s okay if you are. 

It’s okay if you are. 

It’s okay if you are. 

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Corn fields. Late August. Somewhere on the edge of the M25 orbital motorway. A girl walks to work. 

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[jjjjjjjjjjohn]

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Plexure

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rice balls. and again. and again. and again. rice balls. and again. and again. and again.