Return from London

I write confused skeletons. Flesh it out with imagination.

Behind the mirror images superimposed over scratched milky panes, the sky was a panorama of splayed fingers. A man dressed like a mobile highlighter radiated into the seat opposite, and for kicks, I kick off the conversation by shielding my eyes and asking him if he's noticed the sun lately. He laughs, the conversation billows, and our words flow like dunes.

But just 8 hours earlier, a stately black-and-white cat was inserting a small feline tongue into my right ear, as the first motes of morning distilled the inky air.

Just 7 hours 54 minutes earlier, said cat was nonchalantly padding up and down my torso.

Just 7 hours 52 minutes earlier, said cat was idly serrating fiery canyons into my bare leg with a vagrant claw.

Just 7 hours and 50 minutes earlier, I was wide awake, perched warily on the rounded rim of the bed as said cat scrabbled manically at the sheets, elongating into a hellish feline slinky before oozing off the bed and out of the room.

And before all that, with much perplexity, I discovered a forlorn scrap of paper amidst the tumult of my possessions, upon which these words of wisdom were penned in my handwriting:

All the little stick figures on the "caution wet floor" signs look like they're breakdancing.
I am baffled, because I have no recollection whatsoever of writing this.

Hours later, my right foot fighting imminent narcolepsy, I crouched amidst the deluge of worker drones, taking various photographs, while coming to the conclusion that YES INDEED, the little stick figures on all the "caution wet floor" signs do, in fact, look like breakdancers.

I mean, come on.

 

But, the train. I'm on the train talking to the highlighter man, as we pull into Victoria. His eyes flicker around guiltily, as he leans forward and imparts classified information:

"I ride on trains for fun."

I lean forward, our mirror images silhouetted in the decelerating curvature of the underground tunnels, and tell him, mirroring the weathered gravity of his angular face:

"Me too."

I get off at Victoria, simply because it was a perfect moment. When I step onto the platform, the doors slamming behind me in a squeal of sirens, the perfection crystallizes. We'll both remember it forever, I'm quite sure.

I'll leave you with a picture, because it's uber-cool and because I'm ever so proud of it :)

But, yeah. I write skeletons. Flesh it out with your imagination, and photographs shall infuse it with soul.