There is nothing in it

The tube closed on me in Embankment tonight. A voice through the speakers screamed out for a short time and soon the platform was deserted. A couple of little mice moved like a couple of cars remote-controlled by a kid. I decide to walk all the way up to the bus station, in "known land". The streets, not long before overcrowded, were now abandoned, forgotten. I have periodically this group of people crossing me by, half drunk, half asleep, zigzagging. Some girls walk in bare feet; tired shadows around their eyes, a pair of shoes in one hand, some seems annoyed, some does not. Quietness is taking over the night and the city, wind is blowing colder; life is colored in decadence inside buses. There is a guy lying on the floor here; a fat girl is there bellowing fucks and thats; someone argues with the driver; everyone looks blurred faces. Outside, through the window glass, trash and junk are just witness of a raw abandon, the type of careless use and abuse you see in pillows and blankets dragged and disposed of in business class as you leave the plain. The heart of the town is captive and pumps life in tidal waves of uniformity: now we do this; then, we do that. It is when you realize that there is nothing in it, nothing of the brave, noble beast of a town, free, absolutely free and unafraid, never asleep. But, alas! The town sleeps, and betrays, and follows a motion entirely as an undifferentiated bulk.

Is that the big, big city of London? That's it? Tremendous disappointment.

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