London rain, 2.22pm to 2. 26pm. Southbank, 30th March 2018. Nothing unusual except if you didn’t know it before, now you do. Its the end of the world.
Pale shadows hunched up, speaking in rain sodden voices. Running for shelter in blinding lights, overheated, over perfumed spaces. Running for shelter into the bowels of the earth, staring ahead into nothingness, into dreams away from this reality.
The 30 something woman stands behind the counter deep in the tunnel selling pretty little cupcakes in all colours. No eye contact, no communication. Its the end of the world so no need to speak, or to look. Just hand over sales, take the cash, pale out till 6pm.
The black woman in the cafe sitting with the white woman eating, blanks my smile. I don’t exist beyond another shadow. Black is not recognized, it has no meaning. Meanings are gone and we need new translations.