Long and lonely walks, a malady disguised as melancholy, a flaw that artists and hopeless romantics often have and which I am not exempt from either. Maybe if I walk the streets of London by myself some of this city’s charm will rub off on me. I’ll let my footsteps sing a chaotic ode to the absurd. And if it starts to rain, I will keep walking and I will convince myself that umbrellas are foolish and that rain is a catalyst for introspection and that pathetic fallacies are indeed pathetic and that my peripatetic strolls are also pathetic. And when it gets dark, I will notice that the city is brighter than ever and I’ll get a burst of serotonin and nothing will be pathetic anymore.