So today you have two small stones.
A tram killed a man on the street I cross every weekday and still the people move endlessly up and down Market street. An unhealthy looking man musters something up to politely ask me if I have fifty pence. The dubious sales people are giving out free health drinks from a barrel on wheels plastic stickered to look like rough wood from an island paradise. ”its a grower” they proclaim ”more potassium than a bana..” he trails off. It tastes like bile.
Today I am panic and vodka breath and all my achievements are dust as I have missed my booked train. Everything is strange. I am strange. A woman walks along the path to piccadilly station eating a yogurt the spoon a mercury exclamation mark on her lips. She must yogurt commute a lot.