And now for something completely different:

“Night-time. I walk. I prowl the city like a tormented animal, looking for nothing and everything. Can’t stay inside. A need to be alone, cold, refreshed. I am lucky. Anywhere I walk, I get someplace. I am nestled deep within the body of the city. I have to walk myself dead to escape its clutches. But it is not confining, caging me. It’s freeing. My feet are freedom in the city, and they cost me nothing but the shoes I need regardless. Here, I can get someplace for nothing. Any place for a token. Here, I can hide amidst the teeming multitudes, or escape them altogether, trolling the back alleys for thoughts. I collect thoughts, chase them across the glistening streets. Follow them down the twisting passageways of reverie. The city is like the web of my own memory. There, I met her. Here, I browsed the books, buying only what I came across by chance. Chasing nothing but thoughts. I’ve been there, eaten that. But not tonight. I know him, but here, tonight, I can hide. Be anonymous. I walk fast. The thoughts come clearer the faster I walk. I step into the street – cross through crawling traffic, pursuing that idea. I stop. Look around; agoraphobia attacks me. It’s stifling; the bustle too intense. I turn off, head down the dark residential street. Quiet. The rhythm of the headlights of passing cars, soothing. I’m tired. I’ve walked to tire myself, I realise. Mind and body. The journey through thoughts and city mimic each other, towards the same purpose. The sleep that evades me. I am a watcher. I want to see the city. I want to see it fall asleep and wake up. I want to see it live, I want to see it breathe. Here, I feel it. An outsider, walking. I don’t want to miss anything, but once home, I’m disconnected, cocooned. Protected, I don’t need to see the city anymore, I can ignore its pulse. But I am lucky. For it will still be there, waiting, when next I prowl. Seething with my own memory.”