Late summer's last breeze sweeps across the turbid streets of Soho.
Flooded with faces & suitcases; ongoing red buses.

I was there.

I adored the sense of 'being there' - that overwhelming feeling you experiences maybe a few times in a year.

'I love being.'

No one knows my name here or where I came from, or that right now I'm heading to the abandoned alleys of Waterloo, zig-zagging between the small, smoggy drains of cafes & cheap-food restaurants. No one cares. It's divine. It brings a heightened sense of ecstasy that only comes with anonymous wanderings.

You finally get to Waterloo station and you find yourself being that one grain in the great mosaic of the crowd. All these people you'll never see again...Oh, how wonderful! The mesmeric air of passing strangers; momentary lovers.

You're now sitting on a crammed, green plushy seat of the underground. Surrounded by black windows & the sound of monotonous gusty swishing. He's sitting across you, in a cloned grey suit with clean-shaved, razor-sharp looks. One sheepish eye fixed on the empty screen of an iPhone... the other swaddles your fishnet stockings covered legs with brief intermediates of looking away, then looking back again. Another sip of cold, black coffee. I am here.

Smirk. Mossy green eyes and a French nose enriched with freckle constellations. Now. Shy. Smile. Lashes drop down onto the rattling floor of the underground.

Bing. "You're now at Victoria Station."

God, I love being.