The Bird

There's a dull swoop as the wingless bird carries off its prey. I see the eyes of the victims peering through its endless belly; not quite knowing where they're going, slightly dazed by the stifling stuffiness, nauseously excited as it takes off again, flying through the ground. Just another morning on the Underground.

I'm like a spy. I can see you. You could be a banker, in your slightly sweat-scented suit and austere briefcase; you a stoned, 60s-digging music store stock room boy - predictably on the Northern Line to Camden, I suspect - off to get fired for making the front of house reek of marijuana; and then as for you, well, I can't quite place your occupation. You could be anyone.

Ah, shit. I always forget about the rancid turds of chewing gum, lurking like mines, waiting for you to step on them. They serenade the haphazard slaps of your flip flops with a call of "Touch me, touch me", and sure enough, your entranced beachwear follows it; lovestruck. And it always comes to a sticky, cuss-ridden end...

The bleak blackness of the floors chills me. Everything feels grey. The world is monotone. All the saturated glory of rural life is suppressed by the harsh tones of being underground. We aren't moles; we're not supposed to be here. But what the hell, it's out of our comfort zone. I love it.

The fact that everyone has their own little mission makes me feel inadequate. I'm just here for the view, hitch-hiking on peoples' lives. The tantalising smell of heat and change are almost tangible in the air. For example, see that girl in the latest Topshop jumpsuit (it's a startlingly unattractive shade of pastel lemon) just got on the District train? Well, she just fell into the lap of the man in his biker's heaven of leather jacket as the train pulled away. It could be a turning point in her life. At the most, he's either her Mr Darcy or a serial killer, and she's either going to get seduced or stabbed. At the least, it'll be an amusing anecdote for her to tell to her vacuous Kensington heiress friends. Anything could happen. That's the beauty of it. For my money, it's more spectacular than the first roses of May or the first snowflake of December.

What the- ? I jump about a foot in the air when there's a tentative tap on my shoulder. I turn, paralysed by intoxicating confusion and numbed by my own thoughts, and gaze into the eyes of a - OH MY GOD, HE'S GORGEOUS - stranger. "You ok?" Why wouldn't I be? I panic. Why is he talking to me? "It's just, uhh, the guard said you'd been waiting here for two hours. Whereabouts you headed? I got time to kill, if ya need any help..."

I don't want his help.

I don't need help.

I need to suffocate myself with other peoples' lives. Those I can change with a twist of imagination. I can't be a part of those imaginary lives; I can't possibly invade this communicationless vacuum. I think of all the destinies I'd mess with, and know it's all untouchable for me.

I can't stand his kind, doe-eyed stare any longer. It makes me feel too real.

I scatter the crowds like pigeons as I run up the gullet of the elevator, and into that wild freedom of being overground.