CLUBLAND FEBRUARY
A slack gray sheet of cloud whimpers across the London sky, spluttering greasy grains of moisture on to my head as I await the bus that begins my morning commute. I push my ear phones deep in to my aural cavity, remnant drops of my recent shower suctioning loudly against the pliable rubber moldings. There’s only one way to blank the pressed humanity of London’s daily commute, the jostling throngs of scurrying maze-rats about tube stations, the weak pushed aside or trampled underfoot.
Music, the sunglasses of the ears.
