sliding doors

I’m slowly awakening from an autumn coma, suffering from perpetual disorientation. a hangover sledgehammer crashed into my head this morning at the horror noise of the morning alarm, icy liquid filling up the cracks of my scull, freezing and slowly bursting from within.

I always slip through the sliding doors at the last second, pressing myself against the limp bodies of the northern line; mute, sleep falling from their eyes like glittering snow crystals. admin boys uncomfortably asleep in the disabled seats while office girls smudge makeup across their faces, resembling pasty potatoes with some cherry blossom lipstick on. the post-weekend facial expressions are everywhere, staring blankly at the floor or hiding behind sensationalist newspapers reporting on quirky animals and the next celebrity paedophile.

I march through underground tunnels with the morning zombies of London, competing for space by apologising mechanically every ten seconds.

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