The doped masses, heads hanging, blank eyes badly hidden behind over-expensive sunglasses sit on the bus together, nodding to the invisible beat of the anaesthetic administered aurally via the white umbilicus.
"Yesterday, I swear I got to work and had no idea how I got there."
Every smart suit and pair of clicking heals living in denial of their symptoms. The brain-surgeon working on itself excising the horror of the daily commute asks only for a little music to cut by.
I quite like this. I might finally have found a style - shame it's Hunter S Thompson being sick on the shoes of Martin Amis as written by William Gibson...
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