I sit and watch them walk past me, my sight keener, my blood more acidic and exciting, my excitement almost sexual.
Sketchy, you'd call these folk. It's 23:46 in some suburban station. Sketchy, it's quite fitting really, sketches are what they are. Outlines of real people. No real substance. Me neither, for that matter. We're one and the same at this late hour... looking for our score.
Sketchy, more like scratchy. My last fix long leaving my body, leaving me cold and defenceless. These scratchy individuals litter the station on the twilight of this midsummer's night. Even those not holding, smell it, lust for it, led by their nose they leave the station into the night, into the bright lights. I remain here picking at the scabs and scars. The cure doesn't exist, the drug that now exists isn't the same, a pale imitation unable to help me reach those original heady heights. A fragile compound, destroyed by my footsteps alone.
I loved you all. All of you to whom it makes sense to say this. Of course I do, you postponed this for many years.
Bye x x
Jeremy put down the note, still warm and sodden by the anonymous author's tears.
He was awestruck by the whole thing, yet he still couldn't help but resent the man who'd ruined this evening's train service.
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