Palm down, flat with the card underneath. He is buying a small
container of pasta, the pasta is not nutritious and barely satisfying.
Into the station, a clock and also wretches. Some are happy, click-
clacking around, lush. A fake smile catches the worm, she is so tired.
They are all tired but there is Floradix. There is coffee coming from all
the pores in every wall. From every epidermis there is coffee. And time,
all the time. Compared to these skyscrapers and the men who built them.

In the lounge, and hating the way it sounds. Sitting room, Mum would
have insisted. Tapping away, good luck. Stuckist in flannelette.
There are motivational quotes for this I bet, gone viral like a fascist.
There will be a programme for this, a way to re-enter the station.
There is a yoga pose called not depressed, it costs eighty quid at
least, have you tried it. Follow your bliss in an arts admin position, you’ll
be around people: not complex, and they can’t see your eyes.

Back on the walkway there are hundreds of unshackled minds. All with
purpose. A lady nearly knocks my flapjack off she is so full of it. Nips in.
Busy and alive, in her groove. Emotional freedom is an excuse, and it pays
really badly. Also, do you want to be remembered for being tired. She was
always tired! The pews erupt into laughter, they are fond of how tired I was
all the time. Always tired! Just the way she was, changing the world by
loving people. Writing some poems that a hamster made his bed in.

One day the crutches just stop working. It’s ok as we are not chimneys nor
romantic enough to be a drunk anymore. It has lost its mystery. One whole
packet of Nice biscuits is guilt. So now I hobble around on cocktail sticks
stopping only for a single robin. More truth in a single bird than anything I am
told by anyone, more sense. Or a dog’s eyes. I crouch and understand the
dog. His head is solid and my hand does not go through it. Or when a child
speaks to me I can make them laugh. When they like me without trying.

Or I could buy a Graze box and browse products in Boots, they used to hold
such promise. All the potions and stinks, now useless. I see the package
design in vector and people decide to have a different colour hair, how
are these decisions made. People represent themselves and I am lost, can
only see the way they move, with bravado or hesitance, a sudden faltering.
Trying to get past you, winding up to make speed, to their futures on time,
toward the olden days clock with no lovers.

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