Thursday, 20 November 2008


It's a long walk, wherever you're coming from. Alleys snake through streets littered with the footsteps of thousands, dying or, at some level, already dead. It's with a heavy head that you kill yourself with every subsequent step. Doors swing open, faces tilt upwards, and then back down into their respective glasses of some poison of choice. Murmurs swim around in the background, to trample your thoughts in the foreground. The cigarette lady's smoke has followed you inside, and it's still dancing with that point of focus your eyes seem to choose when there's nothing else to look at, and nobody to talk to. Voices ring out, and some assembly is required. Screeches, thumps, booms and tingles all announce themselves, and thoughts are set aside.

Angels sing falsettos whilst mortals bear tattoos, and a child squeals in the joy of innocence.

For when you're on stage, and the lights are on, nothing else matters.

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