I am drunk

Uber

I am drunk and cannot afford it yet here I am in an Uber, up front, mute, feeling the love for this city I call home. The rain is pelting the windscreen, pushed around by the wipers splayed off by the pressure of the racing air we smash through, flying as drops or globules, reforming and snaking the bodywork to its limits as we cut through the night from North to South. 

I sway with the curves, the rights and lefts and to the music that is on low, a track I love, when, I ask  myself, does this ever happen? I am unaware and guilt free of my driver. I care so little. I am alive to the kaleidoscopic sparkles of brake lights, headlights, traffic lights, street lights and kebab shop neon lights. Stars and flashes, comets and supernova. 

Nothing can spoil this until I wake up broke, hungover and remorseful. Which is tomorrows problem, for sure.

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London. Uber. Perhaps the slightest bit tiddly. Directing the driver to the Rotherhithe Tunnel. The rain came later. Nikon D750.

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