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Maida Vale by Karen Steiger I fall in love with a boy with grey eyes, the color of centuries-old headstones with somber letters worn away in an English graveyard. Staring into his silvery eyes while he exhales a cloud of smoke and tells me about his screenplay. He hasn’t written it yet, but he wants to, and I haven’t written anything yet, but I want to too. We are really young still, and we don’t doubt that we can do anything we want. “Are you lost?” Everywhere I go in this city, people keep asking me this. “Huh?” I respond. I’ve always been a little hopeless like that. “Tea with milk, please.”

When

it rains in London, the sky is slate. 79

Profile for The Wells Street Journal

The Wells Street Journal - Issue 11  

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