Everywhere there are hidden receptacles, promissory notes of furtive belonging and dictionaries full of blank pages. Quadrants of men, issuing orders with complicated hand signals and intense glares, eyebrows arched, mouths pursed. Yellow suited orderlies ride yellow bikes, mechanical lemons, to each street corner and switch their glances quickly from left to right, then a hand darts into a pocket, comes out with a desperate key, desperate to enter, desperate to open the bent and burnt steel streetlocker.
Inside, more yellow - a plastic satchel bursting at the seams, rows of crushed envelopes, vacuum-packed advertorial inserts stuffed into the stiff corners of the heaving delivery bag. The bag is hoisted out, a great effort for the operative at this ninety degree angle, she has neglected to dismount, but hoist she does, pulling at the frayed strap and gathering the physics of the thing just right before swinging it expertly through a quarter of a circle and up onto the hollow-tubed yellow basket in front.
Then a click, she rocks the bicycle off the stand, flicks at her dirty perm ends and eases down the street picking up momentum on the tiny pavement stones, mosaicked into sand-flecked waves of uneven surface that judders and jolts her bicycle frame and her rigid elbow joints into a numb submission.