Mist rolls down the street on black-fanged high heels, all click-clacking footsteps and kerosene eyes with the sound of sozzled giggles bouncing off the ancient bricks in eternal vibrations that ripple through the smoke and hover about like wretched ghosts of long nights forgotten in the translucent fumes of yesterday.
And this dewy petrichor of immortal rain intermixed with the aroma of cigarette smoke and stale beer seeps into runny nostrils as the old clock-tower strikes twelve bongs while the skeletal homeless man sits in Hunter Square like a weary rendition of the Buddha, once radiant, golden, proud, now red faced with yellowish teeth, and tobacco stained fingernails that scratch and scratch a retreating hairline and lost memories; woe to him.
And I stand there, peering at this world, watching the hounds of Blair Street through my CCTV eyes, waiting for something to happen like I always do, and time, oh, the time, it wobbles about through the ever growing crowd, and the people spit and shuffle and talk and laugh and laugh and laugh with knife gash grins on their drooping faces as they sing raspy love songs of empyrean beauty, but all I hear is static, as if the entire world was caught between two radio stations; welcome to the City of Ghosts.
Written at the City Cafe,
Blair Street, Edinburgh