Sunday morning,
you can hear the sun falling hard on the Polygon. If I hear the sun, that's not because people went to church nor because Sunday mornings are to be happy-family-time-in-the-garden - you know, the back of the Kellog's box-. Nor it is a day couples and single lovely human beings allow themselves a well deserved extra hour in bed after a hard week.
This morning even the pink-hair lady isn't out emptying her bins from the cans she didn't buy. I'm walking out of Burlington road, my beloved one-year-stand street, and everything is so quiet that it seems unreal. Even the birds, not that I see any, seem to know.
It's dead quiet because yesterday night, 99% of the road went to piss itself right down from the bottom of the stomach to the brain, and at this precise moment, while I'm turning at the corner I can see all those sons and daughters, all those brave boys and girls that mum and dad have mountains of money and hope for, all those future graduates and adults building the British society, they are all just sleeping little babies, they are little angels lying flat among cans and bottles, for some of them with barbies whose name they forgot, for others with empty sachets which price they wish they could forget, they're all upside down, floating like dead corpses in dark oil, in their intoxicated black and blank sleep.
I'm quiet too while I walk out, I know how every single boy and girl will wake up in a few hours, and they'll all wake up with the same hangover, inside each single house a pathetic story with no plot repeating itself, ad nauseam.

I'm smiling, fuck knows why.