He wakes up on platform to station. Busy children playing. Daring each other. Bravado. Pretending to jump. Laughter. One slips. Paste. Regret. Tears. Recriminations. Youthful bragadoccio. He is weeping eyes wide on horror. He can do nothing. He can do nothing. He can do nothing. He is dying. He is dying. He is dying. He drifts off into sleep but is it sleep it may be sleep or something more permanent. There are children singing out of key. He is sleeping.
The Sleepcoat League
Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado. View all posts by The Sleepcoat League