bedranglled angle
Slumping on the lonely dank, drab plateform of Kings Cross station, deviding up a fag with her lover. This Sunday nighttime is scattered with drunken bums, and for once, we are not quite the drunkest; nor do we smell the worse. Late-night, parenoid tourists try and pertend we don't exist —a couple smile. We are spreading our tired ,wore down bodies alll other the sold floor, watching stumbling commuters struggle with the escalator.
Then she appeared! She climbed across the plateform with the final of her lifeforce. Her blue sweatpants has seen better days , and her feet are buried into city stained nike trainers. Her hair was so wispy it remined me of the damiblions we used to blow when we were children.. If I had not known betterI could have swared she was a ghost.. Her hair was so wispy it remined me of the damiblions we used to blow when we were children.. I looked at her withered form and wondering how this happen to her ; that I really didn't have anything to complain about , and i'm just is hanging around for a train.
Out comes her weak, decrept hand.
I looked in my purse but find nothing.
The overbearing statoin consumed her tormented, sorry silhouette.
I search in my bag for another cigrette I make a silent scream, no one can hear but these two hours seem unbearable.. I start to even the sleeping beggar at least they feel at home.
Then out of nowhere she returns.. The wrinkled hand, trembling with malmtrison, had done the whole rounds.
She placed a shinny pound coin into my palm and says, " get yourself a cup of coffee. Chin up your be home soon."
The night eat her up once again before we had any chance to refuse .