Metro; Yellow plastic pores.

Faces; More like craters in spheres, with vocals like screeching spears, set awkwardly upon pasty bodies. Ruddy textures warped in the sullen, off white yellowing lights, speckled with carcasses of small harmless flies. Offers me peace; the pure, blueing floodlight halts at the window with a shudder for a lick of a moment, and for that I am cleansed in the sense of vision-And sound, should I let the fuzzy black and white nostalgia, and it's holy voice in my ear, take hold of the buzz and moan. The peurile sweated smell of good times colliding in various fluids returns my focus to the sickening, dirtied primary colours; safe, comforting plastic grips. And their yellow plastic pores. Could be Cheap, But pretence is cheaper. Body shakes the rails with my measly intake, I say to my vague, dark warbling reflection. I will not admit it is fear of my own ignorance of the potential nature my fellow passengers bear. Cheap horn, in an Off-C I think, ushers me away onto my beautifully lonesome path. I look to the beaten lamps, shoddily painted track lines alongside my waddle, and all that we will illuminate but alas, will never be the sun.