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Description
If I find a quiet spot--hard pressed to find such a thing in London but not impossible--sometimes we rest.

It's not unusual. This frail human shell we live in tires easily and under the almost constant scrutiny of the Aldermen, I find it well within my rights to hole up somewhere and take five.

Or ten.

Or an entire day.

Some things never change.

If we put our hands over our ears and close our eyes and listen, sometimes we can hear the city in our blood. The rush of traffic, the rumble of the underground, the lean and creak of the buildings, the thousands of the footsteps, the whispering of the ghosts, the buzz of the static on the line. All of it hummed in my blood, tangled in my nerves, caught in my lungs, beating in my bones.

If I drew in a breath, there was the sound of an oncoming train rushing down its tracks, the smell of packed bodies and must and that tingling ozone that went to the back of the mouth. If I twitched, my nerve endings sparked electricity and made the wiring sputter and the lights flicker. If swallowed, I could feel the flow of the river Thames and almost taste its bitterness. If I feel asleep, I would probably--

We heard the phone ring from very fair away. Some things never change. We notice every time a phone rings, it's dinging beat dancing across our senses. It's a taste, almost, a sweet tang on our tongue. It gives us a thrill, like the anticipation of a child being told they're going to an amusement park. We like that taste, that thrill, that tingle against our skin, the beckoning of the wires, the chance to dance and--

It's still ringing.

I keep my hands over my ears and my eyes closed, listening to the city pump through my veins. Some things never change and it's easy to go mad this way, feeling the city inside yourself, tuning your heartbeat to the ebb and flow of traffic, breathing smoke and fumes, tasting grease and ancient dirt, feeling thousands of people pitter patter across your skin.

Maybe Midnight Mayors went mad faster than normal. Maybe I was just scaring myself.

Some things never change.

The phone's stopped ringing.

I lean my head back against the wall, feeling the pockmarked brick catch my hair, pressing my shoulders against its cool, solid surface like I can gain some stability from it. Silly. There's gaps there, between the bricks. We can feel them, a frailty in reality, a soft spot in the universe where here is there and there is somewhere else entirely. I let them linger on the edge of my thoughts, don't push myself through, we don't want to go anywhere.

There are rats scurrying in the sewers beneath me, I can feel their tiny claws skittering across my bones. There's a club two blocks down, I can feel it's beat in my belly, a throbbing bass that trembles up my spine. There are cars racing by on the street outside the building, I can feel their tires rip down my back. There's someone on the phone next building over, I can feel their heated words dancing down the phone lines and tickle the tips of my fingers. There's a laundromat across the street, I can feel the tumble dryers humming in my skull.

Some things never change.

I am listening to London and London is watching me.

The Dragon never sleeps.

We hear the phone ringing again. Someone really wants my attention.

With a sigh that is laced with the smell of exhaust, we drop our hands from our ears and the thrum of the city in our blood fades away. Then there's worn out plastic in my fingers and I say,

"Hello?"

We sound tired.

"Mr. Mayor!"

"Hi Kelly."

A pause, "You know that aroma therapy can do wonders for exhaustion and sleep deprivation?"

I have to smile. Some things never change.

Description
If I find a quiet spot--hard pressed to find such a thing in London but not impossible--sometimes we rest.

It's not unusual. This frail human shell we live in tires easily and under the almost constant scrutiny of the Aldermen, I find it well within my rights to hole up somewhere and take five.

Or ten.

Or an entire day.

Some things never change.

If we put our hands over our ears and close our eyes and listen, sometimes we can hear the city in our blood. The rush of traffic, the rumble of the underground, the lean and creak of the buildings, the thousands of the footsteps, the whispering of the ghosts, the buzz of the static on the line. All of it hummed in my blood, tangled in my nerves, caught in my lungs, beating in my bones.

If I drew in a breath, there was the sound of an oncoming train rushing down its tracks, the smell of packed bodies and must and that tingling ozone that went to the back of the mouth. If I twitched, my nerve endings sparked electricity and made the wiring sputter and the lights flicker. If swallowed, I could feel the flow of the river Thames and almost taste its bitterness. If I feel asleep, I would probably--

We heard the phone ring from very fair away. Some things never change. We notice every time a phone rings, it's dinging beat dancing across our senses. It's a taste, almost, a sweet tang on our tongue. It gives us a thrill, like the anticipation of a child being told they're going to an amusement park. We like that taste, that thrill, that tingle against our skin, the beckoning of the wires, the chance to dance and--

It's still ringing.

I keep my hands over my ears and my eyes closed, listening to the city pump through my veins. Some things never change and it's easy to go mad this way, feeling the city inside yourself, tuning your heartbeat to the ebb and flow of traffic, breathing smoke and fumes, tasting grease and ancient dirt, feeling thousands of people pitter patter across your skin.

Maybe Midnight Mayors went mad faster than normal. Maybe I was just scaring myself.

Some things never change.

The phone's stopped ringing.

I lean my head back against the wall, feeling the pockmarked brick catch my hair, pressing my shoulders against its cool, solid surface like I can gain some stability from it. Silly. There's gaps there, between the bricks. We can feel them, a frailty in reality, a soft spot in the universe where here is there and there is somewhere else entirely. I let them linger on the edge of my thoughts, don't push myself through, we don't want to go anywhere.

There are rats scurrying in the sewers beneath me, I can feel their tiny claws skittering across my bones. There's a club two blocks down, I can feel it's beat in my belly, a throbbing bass that trembles up my spine. There are cars racing by on the street outside the building, I can feel their tires rip down my back. There's someone on the phone next building over, I can feel their heated words dancing down the phone lines and tickle the tips of my fingers. There's a laundromat across the street, I can feel the tumble dryers humming in my skull.

Some things never change.

I am listening to London and London is watching me.

The Dragon never sleeps.

We hear the phone ringing again. Someone really wants my attention.

With a sigh that is laced with the smell of exhaust, we drop our hands from our ears and the thrum of the city in our blood fades away. Then there's worn out plastic in my fingers and I say,

"Hello?"

We sound tired.

"Mr. Mayor!"

"Hi Kelly."

A pause, "You know that aroma therapy can do wonders for exhaustion and sleep deprivation?"

I have to smile. Some things never change.