It was hard to explain to somebody else, but while you were in the middle of it all, it just felt worth it. Worth the way things fell apart and worth the abruptness with which they ended.
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I miss the touch. That is what I think as I stare past the glass into the nursery. The carefully ordered squares of wildflowers beyond do not, I imagine, stare back. If they did, I’m sure it would be with narrowed eyes and venomous thoughts.
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I was running late for my own death. All the hire bikes were taken so I had to walk. Along the towpath to Angel, I peered into the canal, empty but for the congealed sludge at the bottom with the odd shopping trolley and hubcap emerging out of it. I imagined the canal suddenly filling up again and a narrow boat appearing that would take me out of this city prison and into the edgelands, all the way to Silva.
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I met a woman the other day. She stood still, hands stiff at her sides. The metalwork meant to serve as the skin was bright against the moonlight. Her feet, on the platform, perfectly aligned across from each other. Eyes settled in the tracks, as though she were taking in each line. The woman was curious. Curious in the way machines can be at times.
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Dusty air whooshes around my skin. Lightspheres chase my sleeves, sending illumination slithering across sandstone. Why do I bother? Hope has become as intertwined with my body as my heart; to rip hope away would be to rip my veins away with it. But that hope is what pumps blood through me, so I can’t resist its commands.
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