November - 2019

A mass of dead winged insects collected and fell from a upturned lamp shade; scattered on my desk - dried out, fiberous shells, perfect in form. From the sky of my room that was their empire and manor, now strewn and collected on the sterile and empty pages of my journal. Out of the carriage window, the lights ahead pass and glow in orbs of ghostly orange. The smell of the hotdog vendor above wafting down through the tubes. Sound of flutes across the way from the music school fall and find their way to me; my tired tired feet and a brief respite of welcoming sounds between the tenament of garbage bins and the remnants of the homeless that I stand between on a break. The humorous and tightened conversation between one and another, comradery comes to two in the smallest of things; the desperate want to find anything to break the monotony of chairs and tables and linen. The thump and pounding of distant music is all I have to know that the venue is even occupied, such is the size of the building. Eight hours of carrying old heavy tables and dirty cloth shit-coloured chairs, stacks of eight and ten - trolley to this room and that to set up for imminent and impending business events or weddings. I’m the chair boy; Table Tom. After eight hours I can no longer feel my feet. Numbness in the heel and toe. Walk and navigate the tube system a ghost. Morning air after a night shift is always the best air. Frozen and crisp. I let it fill my lungs. From the train window, the picture of a journey I have known for the ten years i have lived in London and its slow transformation from Battersea and straight through and beyond Brixton. Graffiti tags eventually painted over with the tags of others ... I exist and I existed and I'll continue to do so for as long as you are able to see this tag, ‘xButterflyDemon56x’ and in my arena of loss I am suddenly aware, and everything becomes clear - the sound and call of the scrap iron man’s high and low pitched horn from his slow moving van in the neighbouring street; the passing whir of the aircraft engine as it moves overhead and onto Heathrow; my presence alarms the magpies in the trees and other birds respond to their allied caw, and just beyond my backdrop the air is filled with the muffled and collected tormenting cries of playful children from a garden nursery as I finally let go and fall into my own cradle and slumber.