Everything had a place, neatly *******, zipped in the case. The handle extended ready for the station; a one way train to a working vacation.
She stole the tickets before he’d gone, hid them away to deceive and prolong.
Over there where street names are art and the coffee barista, 24-hour-bars sit brimming like every star or burning ember, found within iron clad, raw splendour; is where he wants to sit and reside, to write about the commuter tide.
Books will live on reclaimed shelves, stacked high like Tokyo, midnight hotels, ordered by tears shed and poetically written lines, not alphabetically or in genre kinds.
There, for 900 Euros a month, with a deposit to be paid up front and all at once, windows look out onto windows- tenants do the same; but this time smiling, mid-browse, mid-game.
She stole everything he wanted to regain, so parried her move and took off in the rain, to the nearest station to the first train. No ticket was held in his left wet hand, just a Howl for the planned and one for the descent, to the north-of-the-river Three Brothers apartment.