I started smoking vanilla rollies in an effort to remember you,
But of course I didn't need to. I see you in everything.
And an act of trying to remember you feels like a sick joke.
In a yellow car and our made up games, in a plain white T-shirt, in a bookstore where you would happily live out your last days, in the number 23, in your old broken jeans which held me in Namibia, in a cold Stella Artois which takes me back to the beach, in anything that has to do with university or philosophy, in my guilty pleasure - Charles Bukowski - who taught me so much about you, and in a book like this where you spent so much of your time.
These are just grains of sand on the shores of Durban,
that of whom we miss
dearly.
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