“The last known written letter by the outlaw Jesse James, written only a month before his assassination. He intended to buy a large farm in order to retire from his criminal life, but needed one last bank job to do so. I wonder where the rest of his money went, considering he robbed at least a dozen trains and banks within a 10 year span.”—
When I was in my mid-teens, I would steal my Father’s car and drive it around Cardiff. Often late at night/early morning, I’d drive to fellow classmates houses (often girls I had a crush on), just to see where they lived, what the neighbourhood was like. Sometimes I’d climb into their back gardens and take a memento. Back then, I used to live in a permanent day-dream. Reality was too sharp for me, and discovering alcohol in all its various guises at that time was like touching land after being stranded at sea for an eternity.