The deafening underground.

The morning commuters struggle, taken by stride as he stands slightly off central – more so maybe something to do with last night. An untucked shirt and untied cuffs suggests he’s not in for the morning ride. Shaking his paper upright, he bury’s his head to read. Blurred lines.

The other sits back, slouched. Head tilted to the right. My left, focussing on some text above my head. Lilac silk ties and coal black shades – his shoes shine slightly as his bag sags between his legs, loosely.

Listening to ‘We Are Nowhere and Its Now’, by Bright Eyes as father gave me a CD yesterday, a leaving gift.

Comes after work when the features start to blur.

Did you forget that yellow bird?



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