The stalemate hours
My head’s banging by the time the train collapses into King’s Cross. Through the rain-splattered window, the ghost grey hood that encases the station embraces my misery, absorbs it and archives it with the souls of all the lost who come and go here, as the hour creeps ever closer from one day to the next. It deadens my bones.
I wish I didn’t have to leave the carriage. My dream had been enough to keep me asleep forever: A scorching day outside, with the heat creating the illusion in the brilliant blue sky that it’s ripply and white when I stare long enough. Me, draped across a chair without a care that all I have on is a towel roughly fastened around me. The door is wide open and, as I shut my eyes a flickering breeze plays on my face, leaving the tiny beads of sweat
