I arrived in Surburbiden early this morning. It was dark, wet and cold. I clutched my super hot hot chocolate to my chest and hurried towards Prefab Towers. It was then I saw it.
Something chilling.
A glimpse into a bus swinging round a bend in the gyratory system, crammed with the undead. They slewed sideways en masse, packed too tight to fall.
Faces pale and devoid of expression, ghostly apparitions under the neon strip lighting of the 173.
All in need of salvation. Salvation from the grind and pointlessness of the daily commute.
From being held in limbo at the bus stop, on the platform, or in the murky underworld.
I quickly rearranged my face into a contrived joyful expression in case I was mistaken for a walking corpse. Someone passed by, they looked confused.
No one should be happy in Surburbiden at 7.30am on a winter weekday morning, unless they have a lovely cup of hot chocolate to drink, that is.
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