"Art requires discipline.
You said that. I believed you, imagined you grim faced, brow furrowed, paint on your knuckles.
"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom, you said.
As the sun came up after another night speeding and playing records, I wanted to ask you what you'd learned. When you suggested the squat, and leaving college so you could work on your paintings, my heart fluttered in my chest.
I didn't like the squat much. I was always cold, jumper over jumper. Smells frightened me. At night, I heard crying, lying on our mattress next to you as you smoked.
The days between giros were empty. I tried to leave you alone to paint. Your canvasses were smaller, less colourful, less detailed. I was sick all the time.
Drink kept us warm. Someone stole our books and records and we didn't replace them.
"We've got to be practical, you said.
When I told you I was pregnant, you didn't look up from the needle in your arm.
"Producing anything of value is a race against yourself, you'd said once.
I hated you when you stopped painting.
That year, we lost too much ground to ever make up.
