herptime

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The wet black hole of London, where days get darker and the feeling of misery amongst fellow commuters is particularly overwhelming.


Just another night, getting out of Brockley station and I’m greeted by typical Albion wimpy rain.


Usually I’d hate this damn weather, but tonight I welcomed the cold, walking up to a set of headlights, half-blinded and watching the drizzle whip around like smoke, illuminated by the backlights.


I’m no longer standing in a shithole, I’m taken back to a snow storm in Canada. I lose my umbrella and let the wind and rain envelope me.


From the corner of my eye, I notice a familiar figure, rainwater trickling down the furry ears of his hood.


He still hasn’t seen me.


As usual.


I smile.