Creatures of the night are creations.
Followed home by twelve illiterate boredoms, past the people letting off dogs into the park, from the perimeters, like stares.
Night falls as a witness upon the boy wrapping paper round the lampposts. Everyone I walk past is smiling, perhaps they know tomorrow. It feels innane.
Ignore the organised violence that appears to be happening down the slope in the tennis-courts. People scuff their shoes to hide the noise.
The bus shelters keep moving, maybe they have no money either.
My friends have all gone away, their rooms hanging like inverted commas without a word.
There can be no everyday without my, it can belong to no other.