my silent undoing

The platform was empty when he got there. He had no idea what time it was: his watch, a knock-off Rolex, had stopped beating at around a quarter-past ten that morning. It was dark, but that didn't mean anything ' it was the middle of Winter, and daylight had long-since migrated along with all the other birds. Not that the not-knowing bothered him, particularly: he was pretty drunk by then, and actually quite amused by the thought of not having a bloody clue what time it was, let alone whether another train was in fact due that evening. He'd have quite happily kipped on the station platform, the frame of mind he was in. Hell, he'd have relished it.

I sit in the cafe of Littlewoods, my eyes closed. Customer-satisfaction, no falsyfing dream Between my aching-head and uncomfortable seat: Or in drunken stupor simply relish all that I eat.