Never Sleep Again

The Thames shifts, eternal water deep under blue skies. Never seems to move, and I do not even look at the water, not really. Pass by, as it passes me.
The sun is out, and it's hot, and it should feel like summer, but it doesn't. Every tube station I pass through seems dusty, somehow drained of itself. The air is full of dust, and London itself seems unfocused.
On the too-hot train, I start to nod off to sleep.
Back in my room, and with a thin quilt wrapped around me, the windows open  behind me, the air is cold in some springtime way, and everything still looks unfocused. I am tired and full-up and hungry and feel like I'll never sleep again.
Off to Poland on Friday, then back on Monday, and then up to Nan's funeral on Tuesday. The logistics of it all confound me. I need to print out my boarding pass, I need to change money, I need to work out how I'm going to get to wherever the funeral will be.
A sudden seagull cry outside, a cold sound.
The Thames still shifts, in unseen, unfelt London, as all those streets darken to night, but I am not there now to watch it flow - or not watch it flow - nor to divine in it's superstitious water any futures I might not want to see.