walking

Everywhere everything is brown. I walk and walk and walk. I notice many things: some boys harassing girls on the bus, the man crying in the corner, an old couple facing the streets hand in hand, patiently waiting for the traffic light to turn green in order to cross the street.

My name is Layla and all I am thinking of today is a verse written by Charles Bukowski:

Everywhere the ill wind blows,

and Keats is dead

and I am dying too.

The couple crosses the street and I can’t help but look inside the building standing in front of me. Huge windows, huge bed, huge room and small curtains. Regardless of the pleasant size of the room, I decide I do not like it: it looks tremendously anonymous - the few decorations are white and the lights could be in any office in Blackfriars.

I walk and walk and walk. Yet, I am not going anywhere.

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