That’s when he took me up in the London Eye to toast the sell-out success of my debut photographic exhibition which he had helped to launch. Thanks to Gustav that past life finally nose-dived into the water two weeks ago. That papery shred could be the symbol of my unhappy childhood, adopted as a foundling by a neglectful, absent pair who every single day considered me a thorn in their flesh, never bringing themselves to touch me or love me, let alone call me their own. An umbrella of sparks spatters Manhattan as the rocket’s discarded tail spirals away like a dead leaf into the boating lake. And just before Christmas I flew over that ocean with a one-way ticket in my hand, my mentor and lover Gustav Levi at my side, and the promise of a new life, a new home, awaiting us both.Ī rocket shoots up into the air, level with where I’m standing. The distance between the cold cliffs of Devon where my journey began two months ago and these fiery, multi-coloured showers of New Year exploding over Central Park is, literally, an ocean. I can’t believe Serena Folkes has travelled halfway across the world and tonight has her face pressed against a triple-glazed window high above New York. The pure and simple truth is rarely pure, and never simple. As I would not be a slave, so I would not be a master.
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