At the heart of all these days, that building I work in, a cross between an abandoned hospital and a once-factory. It's actually a call centre. A cold centre. Wide empty corridors, hospital white walls, creaky lift that opens onto other floors. Wide stretches of emptiness, and almost a wind blowing through it all.
Inertia and entropy.
I remember the train doors closing, and waving goodbye, and the city streets now even more defined by absence. A coldness here, a coldness there. Her voice lingers, another room, another country. She knows the sun and I know this; the anatomy of concrete, the lethal witnesses of alarm call driven mornings.
The mirror.
Signs of ageing. Entropy. Something I've been ignoring too long.
I hide my smile. I wait for these January days to pass.
