The Visitor

Liverpool Street Station, empty vacuum of a dent and a women post-pub lost in the chaos...

A six-foot lug of meat bumps into me without saying sorry — just continues walking down the tunnel, arms by his side, like a little soldier. They’re all conditioned this same way, dragging on toward a night well spent, or perhaps unwell; I can’t be too sure. I find myself collecting the bits and pieces in my own wobbly way and attempting to decipher the…