Stream of Consciousness at 19, LDN

Click-click-click. Heels of passerby sounding suspiciously like the crunching of rats in darkness. Femme fatale becomes rodent with vomit-inducting tail. 

Passing a red telephone booth, utterly delipidated and forgotten by age, modernity’s relic in post-postmodernity. I imagine it completely shrouded in ivy like a medieval monastery. Pedestrians walk by with headphones, every tendon plugged into a miniscule socket. Each one encased by an invisible telephone booth. 

Try not to look at own reflection in tube window. 
In the same place again, that sings quietly in a peculiar way, drumming an old beat not belonging to me. Will it beat for me again, as it did before when I never expected it to? Hesitantly…circumstances must be exactly right and nearly impossible to find: a cloudless blue sky, a melody of release…
Intent on quality work. Intent on not feeling tired all the time. Intent on condensing myself into a straight, thick line. Pencilling myself in with black lead as BBC mumbles in the background. Necessity for an ideal sanctuary precedented yet unexpected. Where would one find such a thing? 
Hopefully still the same person was last week. 
Phantomlike presence of phantom love, felt previously in different ways. What good to see each other again? Separation and death equally jarring. 
Real estate agent dog from hell with sweaty palms (absolutely not to be trusted). Own laziness nearly as unforgivable. 

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