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Decay is with me each day, in my embodied being, but also in my dis-embodied being, in my thoughts. Decay pops into my conscious thought now and again through the day. This word relates or interprets a thought that feels close to how I am. A word that relates to how I feel. I wrote a notebook page out of  decay a little earlier, before coffee. The page began with decay, woods, play, mulch, and ended with decay is dense.

I look at my cup of coffee scum, the scum looks beautiful, I make a photograph of scum.

Some years ago I would walk into town in the early morning. I tried sitting in different cafes; Starbucks, Nero, Costa, Pret. I vaguely wondered how the ambience of these places affected my notebook writing. If I read my writings now it's hard for me to distinguish between something written in Starbucks in Tottenham Court Road, or a boutique hotel in the middle of Soho, or Pret in Cranbourne Street in Covent Garden.

I've tried Caffè Nero three times this month, I've walked past it many times, I had a feeling about its appearance. That feeling, that appearance, my assumption, was with me the first and second time, and to a degree the third time, but at the same time I began to feel comfortable with my self in that place. I've found some spots to write, a stool, window light, a wide shelf. I can sit there for half an hour, drink my small cappuccino, and just focus on my thoughts and the words that I begin to associate with, or interpret my thoughts.

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