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Oyster extra

Spilling out into the crisp-air pavements and I am making my way home, once more, when the snoring streets are empty and the car windscreens are full of frost, catching the odd reflection of the sepia streetlights. Singing mid-2000s dubstep songs out loud and shivering like I did that night when 'Chromium Sunrise' was born. There aren't any planes cutting their arc across the usually crammed Heathrow/Gatwick flightpaths. No, wait. Here's a jumbo directly overhead, gigantic and pounding through the clouds, just the outline and flashing winglights visible. A few foxes dart quick from outside some of the cars and darkly saunter off so I can't see them any more. I take the muted moments to think about everything, or at least everything I can fit into my soggy memory. There's so much in this city, so much to sink your teeth into and so much to lose as well. Angels come and go and fade from the scene with things like "I'll leave eventually" and it fucks you up. I am becoming these back alleyways now, these crunchy solitude-granting crescents, lanes, streets. I must have had thousands of these nights, searching for something and always coming out the other side still not quite sure what it was. There's echoes of things that have gone before in the things that are here now, the reds of the buses seem profound as they struggle up the hill, there are words in their movement which has been tracked a trillion times, pieces of the parties lost in the recent past. But I should be cutting a line under all this, saying my goodbyes and getting a different groove. Not scared to go for the risk. But again this is the London and I don't know what the fuck comes after London. Where will it end? Is there room for any more Europe? Just before home there's another fox directly in my line of vision and this one's not budging. Staring me out. Then I make a quick move forwards and he rustles away to the fog. I try to dive back into the safety of my head and spaced out lovelorn post-garage beats and my slight muscles begin to ache into the glassy tranquil night where I can always nest my complex fears.

© Copyright 2016 John Maher