To the country...

What am I doing here? Serving this concrete machine? I remember when I was young, at night, padding the summer grass in my bare feet. And that was in South East London! Now that is far out of reach. I spend my time crushed in stuffed tube trains, paying more than I earn for the privilege. Chewing tasteless paper-wrapped consumables as I scurry between appointments. Returning home to be imprisoned in blocks of grey sarcophagi. The parks are overtaken by bums and winos, the lifts are full of piss and shit, packs of youths roam the streets and I think of leaving. To where the stars break across the night sky. To where the air is heavy with earth and the ground sinks beneath your step. To the country, flee.