Quarter past 11...

To hug them goodbye, and I lost a part of myself somewhere between the car door, and the street sign saying "Slow".

To the floor! I'll fall, to the floor... and leave myself there for a few hours, hoping the weather stays just as sour, wondering whether my feelings will let up, and whether or not to just give in and give up, all together...

Old Russian music plays in the background, a theme, for a day of contemplation, of frustration... a realisation of something more, than what I found whilst lying there on the floor, besides the bunnies of dust, and the nails of rust, protruding from the wood, to stab and reject, weapon in disguise, my demise, has changed.

Someone lies down beside me, their silence is pulling me out of my selfish spite and I turn and look into the face, and say "I'm not a believer"... and they say "neither am I".. "so what now?".. "let's sneak out the window and pretend we're spies"...

We jump out the window and watch for black cars, hearse-like, cop-like, anything with bars... we're on the run, and it's quarter past 11.... I'm hoping we'll still be alive and awake at quarter past 7.

I whisper to that someone: "We've got hours to make a scene...so kid, let's keep this one clean". We're in this together, hands tied tightly way down low behind our backs....and with that I forget about the car door, the floor and the street sign saying "slow"...

I forget about the street sign saying slow...