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dropped by the noticeboard a couple of hours ago, the one just inside the entrance of that gallery, the one that used to be a tattoo parlour, have been gravitating there off and on for the past two or three years, you know that, saw that you hadn’t pinned anything up in quite sometime, wondered if you had maybe gotten sick or simply fed up with the process, barista across the street said he hadn’t seen you in ages, thought you had moved out your apartment on the sixth floor, said you bought a warehouse on an industrial estate, as I looked at your last post and at some of your other images scattered around the board some text came to mind, pulled out a pen, although it kind of jarred, stuttered, as if the words were clogging in the desperation of my shambolic handwriting, I know I should stick with one brand, buy a couple of packs of them online, carry a couple on me, whilst I remembered I scribbled the words down and the slipped the scrap of paper into the condom pocket of my jeans, the pair that I bought in the Muji sale at Kitasenju, whoever calls it a condom pocket?, is that really what’s called?, and you were right, I should have bought a size smaller, so having mentioned the barista I got a notion for a cortado, ordered at the counter and made a comment on the barista’s beard, if I could temper mine I would grow it but I’m as useless at styling a beard as I am in a garden, or a kitchen, he laughed and said he’d bring the cortado over in a couple of minutes, so I went and sat down in one of those comfy armchairs, the sort that you can just sink into with a book, pulled out the slip of paper and laid it out on the low table in front of me, moments later the barista set down a saucer with a duralex glass on it, carefully positioning it up alongside the paper as if manipulating the elements in a still life, the barista’s identity bracelet dangling on his wrist inscribed with the words, total chaos, silver linked bracelet, black shirt, eau de cologne, familiar with him but not knowing him, not knowing about him and he knew nothing about me but he knew things about you, he told me before about your favourite shoe designer and he exclaimed, do you know how how much a pair of those shoes cost, and I told that my dad always insisted on good shoes, apparently you judge a person from the feet up, she told the barista she often went barefoot, especially when she was painting, and the barista said,  now that I think of it she has some sort of studio or workshop in the warehouse, as I say I haven’t seen her so I don’t know if she is still making dance films or taking photographs of balloons, only occasionally one of her friends turn up but they say little, he made his way back to the counter to serve a waiting couple, I looked down at the glass, at the words on the slip of paper, I realised there had been other words in my head, words that were meant to follow on, or images that needed to be transformed into words, a minor superficial distraction, superficial minor distraction, superficial, minor, the minor distraction, and I stood at the window looking down onto the street, looking at the tree lined central reservation that divided the road, if I had lived on the fourth floor I wouldn’t be able to see over the rooftops, I wouldn’t see to the edges of the city, to where Google informed there was an industrial estate, beyond that, woods, forest, going into hills, to mountains, and I turned to admire the print on the wall, a black and white photograph, one of yours, taken from the noticeboard, I filled the empty space with some banknotes, I know not enough, I know what your work sells for, but it’s the thought that counts