Sometimes it feels like the rain never stops.
I turn away and I hear it before I turn back to look.
It’s really coming down now.
Sitting quietly in corners waiting for something big to take hold, taking late night buses to the rhythm of a whirring heart, following over ground routes, from grey to black to grey again.
Watching people flow in and out of the station. Waiting.
Count all the steps. Listen on repeat.
This is the old routine.
‘This is a blast from the past’.
A door that leads to nowhere and a window that is never closed.