Being in London makes me want to write a novel. It reminds me of winter, of smog, of Starbucks coffee and warm scarves. It reminds me of early mornings, taking pills on an empty stomach behind boarded up broken windows, and uneven paving slabs leading to rows of houses that look the same. They sit pretty next to graffiti that should be on a canvas. It makes me wish for rain. It makes me wish for better. It reminds me that I can still get out, get lost, and don’t have to get found for a while. London makes my think of dreams I have never lived, another life I could have had – or that someone else is living.