fifty nine


There were two covers on the newsagent’s stand, one of Pete and the other of Carl. The selection of one or the other felt like a declaration, like picking a team, but that was just an illusion: The point of the covers wasn’t about being for Pete or for Carl. It was about being a Libertine regardless of your disparate allegiances and ideals, regardless of poetry or prose and which leap towards self-mythology was the least disappointing. In that seven day instant there was a cultural assumption that everyone was a Libertine. And, yes, that was just another illusion, but it was a really good one.

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