I was born in Brooklyn, New York New York. This isn’t my home. I moved from there to Croydon England at the age of three. This isn’t my home. Since the turn of the century I’ve lived somewhere in Comecticut. This isn’t my home.
I go through life feeling like I have a place in this world and I’m not there, like my home is just over the horizon. It’s one thing to not fit in its another to feel like my place is right there waiting for me to stop hanging out around these parts. That’s why I can’t go home, I’m still Looking for it, but my search is slow because I’m scared of getting hurt on the way. Where is my home? Where am I? What’s the point?
Remember remember the fifth of November.
I’m a good writer. A person told me to write this. It’s funny if you knew what I meant.