It was only recently that I crossed a bridge to get to work. The bridge was the same bridge as everytime I cross it. The handrail, the graffiti art, the cycleway, even the river beneath the bridge. But this time the world around was missing.
In this surrounding of wool-like exhalation, a spider’s web collection of drops anchored between here and there. And I remembered a German palindrome: Nebel // Leben, reflecting mist and life.
As I played the back and forth of Nebel-Leben-Nebel-Leben in my mouth, a boat went by, appearing and disappearing between the limitations of river and sky and everything in between.
It was a few days before Christmas that I took a walk in London.
The weather was neither cold nor warm (or at least I didn’t notice) but in the sky there were bubbles and the pavement was plastered with spat out chewing gums.
How long the night must have been. How short the night must have been. How sharp the underground lights sting the heavy eyes.
I didn’t care for a Christmas jumper. Although they were marvelous.
And I didn’t care for a pink piece of cake (someone else already did – halfway that is).
Then I met beautiful people at Camden Market. Psychedelic Rabbits and Leopards and Bare Ankles and all laced in gold.
From behind the window sill I felt a tingle. It was the CCTV watching me.
And the train guided me into my nothingness, lulling us into sleep; the machine a sudden caring mother.
My last friends. They left stains and the impression of their feathery weight on my arm.