It is late on the wrong concourse and there's a heart-shaped hole where my scarf should fold and two sleeves missing whence a coat should fold. It is late on the wrong concourse and I am hungry—never been hungrier— could eat a racehorse whole. Not two hours ago, midway through a kaleidoscopic triple time zydeco, a Mancunian girl stole my glasses from my nose, my wallet, phone and pin codes too: I am without everything I need to get through this without being seen, soaked to the gills in 5-hydroxytryptamine, completely placid, reset and redeemed. I spill into seated position no. 2.5 (the lounge edition) across a line of seating by the exit doors. I have been reduced to a silhouette impressed below a bank of antique OLED screens, chewing my cheeks off, processing 4K dreams, watching breaking news hit at six-fifteen:

VARIETY STAR CRASHES AUTOMOBILE INTO FIVE DOOR CAR. ONE FAILED BREATHALYSER TEST; HANDCUFFED HIMSELF AS HE DULY CONFESSED.

                                                               And nine by sixteen footage repeats as nine by sixteen footage repeats as nine by sixteen footage repeats scenes of high-vis jackets refracting shining blue light sirens. Finally, I’m thinking, evidence celebrities wrangle reasons they can’t express, out of body muscle memories unable to shake their showmanship: the weather’s up next predicting snowfall and mist.

I try and search for the source and the excess of this all in one mouthful. Scores of sentences, unparalleled, inarticulate when asked about routine bubble like wool into incompetency while nodding off catches me not sleeping and Trump’s mad drunk on TV.                                                      I don’t know how I feel about separate armed madnesses wandering corridors with automatic-weapons anymore as too many times is two many times too many. Somebody should set a precedent, start selling a prescription meditation present-situation combo in pill form to save our adolescents from fading breathless under science classroom desks; I don’t know how I feel about Ant and/or Dec, Bill Turnball’s cravat collection, protein shakes, or watching content for contentment’s sake—