She rocked up on the doorstep. It wasn't a cold and wet night. There wasn't even a chance of it being overcast.

The sky was clear and the sunshine crisp in the early morning.
We were friends. Not close, still not very. I guess it was enough for her to put her foot in the door.

She didn't ask for a spare room, she made one.

Bailey's rooms always reflect her subconscious and she is constantly reorganising. It is never planned, it was more how her mind fidgeted.

Her first room wasn't dissimilar to one you'd find in an convent.

Someone once spoke about the weather changing to suit one's mood. They lied.

Photos from weheartit.com.

how I left.

So, I guess you (or lack of you) already know how we met.

but you don't really know that tybalt hasn't paid me back. (I refuse for my good deeds to be untied.)

My name's Bailey. Sort of like the irish cream, and I like to think that maybe just as sweet.

No, really I am.

I'm not quite sure who I am, or how I am, or even really who tybalt is. I mean, I do know her. But I don't really know her, in the same kind of sense that I know myself

I used to live in a house with a fence, that had a window I could climb out of. With french doorways which would swing open with the slightest touch. Like one night, when the old house was quite, and storm would be brewing, I could simply slip away, into complete darkness, and then I would come right back again.

But I've gone so far- I used to be able to climb out of those windows,

and past those doorways with such ease, that now I guess I enjoyed doing that so much, and so often that I just never came back.

I don't regret it.

something has always confused me.

People have a fixation on vintage.


There's a supply of old clothes from mid 19hundreds onwards.

People like it. People go out of their way for the musty smell.


But.
What happens when the op shops run out?

Vintage isn't a renewable resource.


We can't set up a wind farm to catch it in the air.

Do we retire the diminished decades and move on to newer grounds?

Do we begin gang wars, using trackie pants as ammo against rivalling gangs?

Kids will take up dealing doilies and felt hats to pay the rent.

Grandmas will be robbed of the shirt on their backs.

People will walk the streets in fear, wearing the most modern clothes they own.

Vintage will only be brought out on special occasions.

Weddings and birthdays and anniversaries and funerals.
Giant companies will begin taking over any remaining vintage stocks, selling them off to the rich.

What a horrible world we will become.

Beginnings.

Bailey and I met, say, 3 years ago.

At a grocer's shop among city lane ways. Bailey was perusing through the magazines, patiently waiting for the line to move along. Most likely thinking about how trashy things are made to get popular.

Photo from weheartit.com

I was out of change. $2.65 short. Bailey chipped in, and I vowed to pay her back after a short discussion.

3 years ago we became friends. Not long after, we became house mates.