Jay took me to a quirky Italian eatery after the Paul Klee exhibition at Tate Modern - as we walked through Bloomsbury, I saw before me, superimposed upon calm facades, bright shards of Klee's worlds -
We sat looking out into the elegant street - opposite were shops with black bow windows - Jay said that once, one had been filled entirely with a wall of books -
The proprietor had a mournful smile, as though he knew all our secrets - he moved around the tables like a silky courtier - we drank potent coffee -
Jay told me how once he'd gone into a bookshop in Coptic Street - it sold tiny books, the size of postage stamps -
Jay told the fragile bookseller he was looking for something by Walter Benjamin - ah, he said, with an expression of infinite sadness - my father knew him well -
Later, we made our towards Jay's eyrie in The Institute - we passed by the site of one of the July 2007 bombings - Sophie might have caught that bus, I thought - if she had , then my life would be one of icy darkness -
Nearby was a beautiful square - I imagined terrified ghosts taking refuge there -
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