Authors Note: I wrote this from the taxi this morning.
the taxi smells like urine and the driver
decided to turn up with an attitude. just
over the hill I can see the heads of office
blocks. the car swerved side to side as the
driver shifts violently in his seat. we come
to a sudden halt at the sign of a red light.
we drift pass the Working Class Movement
Library — a passage of time with a rainbow
pedestrian crossing. a boarded up building
rendered an exhibition with posters for
various bands and artists from the indie scene.
a woman stands at the bus stop with peroxide
blonde hair and contrasting colours. her hands
shoved into pockets. taxi man is asking which
way to go even though we’ve been down this
road before. they all seem to complain about
the city. too pricey / too busy / too hard.
he drops us off where all my memories remain.