He, she… no, they, are waiting around the corner at the end of the pavement – politically correct, biding the time of Big Ben’s ancient chime.
The future is mine and ours, devouring hours with our many power walks to and from our destinations. Avoiding awkward talks and conversations, passing nations of people: Carribean, African, American, and Asian, Queen Vicky in our palms.
I’m unsure of what awaits us but I am drawn to it, attracted to its [redacted]. Its anatomy. And the strategy is to work through the day until it turns to night, warding off slumber with all of our might.
We ought to fight, it is our right.
I hope we can survive… we just might.