|sent from: London, UK. destination: Tempe, Arizona, USA|
You don’t expect the apocalypse on a Monday night. Everyone’s just getting over the weekend, for one thing. I was coming home late. Outside Clapham Junction two street sweepers [walking] with limp arms wandered past a woman who stood mouth agape with an expression as though shocked to find herself old and infirm. A man walked out of the station his legs moving as if connected to two different people wanting to go in opposite directions. The train, when it arrived, was strewn with food wrappers and dried pools of dark liquid. As stations approached, people would stand, stumble, fall against the chairs. Was the world afflicted with some disease that I was immune from? One that robbed people of their motor functions? Amazingly for England, none of these people seemed drunk. I stumbled off the train and weaved down the road.