There is something cinematic about sleepwalking out of a club into the empty London streets at seven-thirty on a Sunday morning. It's the morning light.
Once you step outside you breathe again. You walk with a swagger. You walk with your hands tucked inside your pockets and feel like you're on the inside, like you're seeing the secret face of this place. You show your teeth to the asphalt as its trail leads you on.
The sun sighs into your eyes and scattered piles blow about your mind. You look to the bruised shadows and hope that this moment doesn't break.