Most things we write come out of a moment of enthusiasm
The seat I am sitting on is warm. The leather has formed to accommodate the buttocks of the person that sat on it before me. It demonstrates the memory of his body. The warmth it still retains, the vicarious experience that is still here when he is not.
I am in the Tate Modern Cafe, my frown momentarily broken by a polite smile to the cashier. I am taking my latte and make my way across the room, passing mothers with children and fathers with Blackberries, and find an empty seat next to a couple that will not utter a word to each other for the next thirty minutes.
From all the sights I saw today, the best was not on display. Five men were taking down the giant plinth that Film was projected on. They were standing on a platform, elevated by a crane, the metal rising…
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