Something I wrote for something else. Something.
The day started like any other. The usual shaft of light beaming through the crack in the curtain and the shrill constant beeping of next door’s alarm clock scratching at the walls. Christ, the only thing missing from this picture was the dustman reversing down the road clattering the green plastic tops of wheelie-bins like a rejected cast member of Stomp wreaking revenge on the sleepy town of Bromley.
It had been 3 months since I’d left the favelas of Sao Paulo, and with New Jersey seemingly closed off to me, I’d packed my pockets and set off for the sunny south-east of England; I figured that at least here I’d be free from the streets of bullets, grime, and crime. How wrong I was.
As I swung my legs out of bed and sat up, I noticed something odd. Well, odd to any normal person, to me…
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