cafe morrison

I never wanted to be an astronaut in the 4^th grade or a cricketer in middle school. Over years the only thing that grew in certainty was that I wanted to be a theoretical elementary particle physicist. But something that I am even more certain about is what I don’t want to be, and that is a cleaner at café Morrison as of the 31^st May 2010, for the carnage I’d witness would be enough to want to take up a job at the West Ham Cemetery. Blood drops on the black granite, broken glass strewn on the floor, footprints on the couches and frames that used to house photos. Even Nathan Gale would look up from the inferno he’s rightly in and with an everlasting ambivalence; wonder whether he actually robbed the world of a legendary guitarist. 1552