Two cast away, aching bygones stuck inside a locked museum. He a collection of sadness and dinosaur bones, me wrapped in felt-tip pens and loneliness. But together we could conquer the silent halls, and eventually the world (or London). We may have been named bygones by those we had once loved the most (me by my family, he by the girl he gave up everything for), but we were to rise from the ground and live again. Let bygones be bygones, unless you yourself happen to be a bygone too.

When a child falls and scrapes their knee, an angel is right there beside them. But when an angel falls and loses their dignity, what is there, but empty air?