02:45. By CpSingleton © 2017
Some would say,
“Shit, it’s quarter to three! I should be asleep!”
But I have crashed off that bridge too many times to fear the splash.
So, I look for the red button. It’s been warped beyond recognition by fire and wrong decisions.
Instead I look for another exit.
Down the steel tube I go. It’s the size only fit for a child or that ilk, causing my ribs to creak like an ancient staircase cooling after a warm day.
It’s not a tunnel, so I don’t anticipate a light at the end of it.
I was right not to assume.
It only makes the time spent inside easier.
There are voices to be heard, though they are too…too…what’s the word…
I pull myself on without moving.
It’s a strange, yesterday/today/tomorrow feeling.
A watched pot tells the same time whatever the weather, so no point waiting for that to boil.
Onwards and nowhere we go.
Carthorses. The word, carthorses, quickly appears, as if looking for another word to pull at its reigns.
It will, unlike I -or is it me?- be disappointed.
I recall working in a factory where they made springs and circlips. It was full of men with delusions of grandeur and runaway wives. I soon lost interest.
I then moved on: unlike now.
At least I’m recognising that it’s 2017: at last.