Monday night, and I'm sitting on a narrow footpath. A small metal table, a steaming plate of food.
a light drizzle occasionally falls - not quite stopped by the thin awning out the front.

"Would you like to come inside?"

          "No, I'm ok out here"


"Are you sure you don't want to eat inside?"

         "I'm certain", said with a smile

          I feel alive

Tuesday morning, and I'm woken by the sounds of a city. I'm woken by tens of thousands of lives colliding, merging.
Slipping past each other, and intertwining.
Seventeen floors up, I stand behind plate glass windows, and all I can see is the tapestry they create.

Before too long, my feet hit the pavement, and I add my own thread.

And at the corner of Oxford and Liverpool Streets, an ambulance weaves its way through the traffic, urgent and loud.
Like a ripple through water, this pattern changes. Ever so slightly.
I wonder how far it will travel?

          I feel alive

Wednesday morning, and subway stations. Puzzling over stubborn ticket machines, joining the hordes of humanity on this platform.
Subways are not heard...they're felt. Like standing in the centre of a great bass drum, feeling every bone vibrate.
Creating your own silent harmony.
And before long, I'm in a seat, bag next to me. Alarms sound - stand clear of the doors. Almost silently, we move.
And there's nothing but the swaying of this carriage.

          I feel alive

Wednesday night, and I'm tired legs, unable to stop. Not wanting to spend a second longer than I must, in a too quiet hotel room.
So I'm heading down streets I don't know. Vaguely aware of my direction, not really caring anyway.
Behind me, a man shoves a stick into electronic parking meter coin slots. It doesn't take long before the stick alone is not enough, as the coins fail to drop.
And the blows he gives these machines become stronger.
My feet take me to Oxford Street, and I raise weary eyes to the sky, to see a line of birds flying overhead.

They're not birds.

Bat wings glide overhead, by the hundred. Sleek, black as night. They keep coming, and coming, like travelers on a familiar highway, following well worn streets.
I can't take my eyes from the sky.

          I feel alive

Thursday night, and I'm coming home. Or as close to home as I've found yet.
Hours of travel bring me into my home town, quiet as a grave.
I drive down the main street, the sense of wrongness radiates everywhere I look. Streets are empty. Streetlights seem to be fighting a loosing battle, as they attempt to fill the gloom.
It feels as though the welcoming arms of my city have withered, and died.
This city's heart is struggling to beat.

It's keeping pace with mine.

          I feel...nothing at all