Reflections #42

In my poem 'A Persian Pal', a talk about meeting an Aranian friend in the west end.

By this point stopping at peoples houses had seemed a sort of luxury-experience for me. I remember how vividly it all felt to be travelling on various buses to get to the outer-parts of London where tube stations and bus-stops were a lot more far apart.

I really hope he's doing well and managed to successfully seek asylum in the UK after being tortured by his government.
I'd got to know him for a while at this point, and despite both of us seeming somewhat a little lost in life whilst hanging around Piccadilly circus, it was nice to have a friend away from the drug scene.

When I got to his house I saw that he'd lived a somewhat simply and humble lifestyle, in fact looking back I think it was a squat.
I won't say his name, just in the case there's any repercussions from it, but I liked him I did, a good spirit he was.

He liked a drink, but seeing him drunk had been somewhat a rarity until my later times around Piccadilly Circus. I just hope he's managed to live a stable and comfortable life, and managed to stay.

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