In my first months in London I found a new friend. I had never had a friend like her before, brave and fragile at once; she had something – I don’t know how else to call it than ‘unadapted’ in the very best sense –; she clearly wasn’t mainstream. She wasn’t scared of the dark side of life, there where people may go astray. She was wonderfully imaginative and a great writer. I never fully understood her character and I sometimes feared that, however kind and generous and supportive she was, I didn’t mean as much to her as she did to me. We spent most of our Sundays together, watching films or music videos, and she would tell me these incredible stories of her life which in hindsight had been often slightly borderline. She had closed her doors to the outer world several times before I entirely lost her to depression. I was missing her for a long time and I still think of her when passing by the Hampstead pond she used to live at; I then look up to her window from which the world always looked so non-London and peaceful.

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