The train spits out people, crawling underground like worms, brushing against each other in the rigid space. I walk the other way and take position between the bars.
The crowd is silent and solitary. Thoughts are writhing and U-shaping inside the skulls, but nothing comes out. Sometimes the mind is asleep, protected by the noise of the engine and doors and brakes, not forced to show off some occupation of any kind.
Here where the other minds sleep, mine comes out in stains of ink, tiptoeing on paper clouds, careless of the world underneath. Where Londoners bury their thoughts, here is my writing space.
|Moving Londoners since 1863.|