You know these dead spaces between the tower blocks. Shallow, grey skies. The train moves like a dream of a rollercoaster. No driver. There are homelands here. The sky seems to close to us all. Rocking of the train. Like a boat. The ghosts of factories - but I don't remember any. Wasteground-gothic. A tangled path leading to a dead end.
Something that looks like a reservoir. Dead stillness of the water reflects the 2D skies. Shadow of some metal, stretched out arms like a heron. A heroine. Heroin. Obvious leaps from one to another. Housing association projects. Windows lain with towels and flags. Cul-de-sac warnings. Overheard conversations; 'there's nothiing here at all'. I think of you in all of this, this someone coming home, to this place full of meanings and signs and nostalgia amongst my imagined knife crimes and gang-ghosts. You sleep here in these grey rooms. The corner of houses always watched by lost eyes from the passing trains.
