Bloke's Column: Lonely Joe Parker

An old familiar alley, behind the train station. Coffee shop. Gotta fly inside the hour. Crisp air, bright sunlight, roasting beans. My mind on music and the gigs and meetings to come - have to impress. Which of my songs should I go for - Brooklyn? Bee Stings - yeah. Remember to let everyone know. Williamsburg?

Williamsburg... I'm sitting back now and let my eyes close despite the breeze. Drifting off, I let my mind wash back to the city and the girl I love. A deli round the corner from Tyler's - we kept running into each other at lunch (the wasters' breakfast), not over bagels but Aymeric's fresh-baked quiche. CMJ, gigs and American audiences were our currency. Let's do a show together - why not? That Autumn, anything was possible for two young Europeans in the big city, perched on the edge of the great American interior - and our futures.

The Music Hall; Death By Audio; that shitty trip uptown; that scary one downtown. Making and losing friends so fast we didn't notice the week passing by. Why should we? We had all the time in the world. We had the rest of our lives. Night after night, spinning across the city, a dream of young love in leathers and rags, breathing harmonies and mussing each others' manes as we stalked our patch. Until the last night, and a cab ride, and a silence in the morning.

I look up - snap back - empty the mug. Time to go. Time to move on. But walking down the street, a courier's wasp-liveried wheels remind me that I'm still waiting.