After Hours

The food in the supermarket had already begun to go out of date with no one to change the stock on the shelves. Strip lights on the ceiling – old and tired now – still glowed doggedly through the days and nights for no other reason than that no one had come to turn them off. It was so quiet, there was not even silence; just an endless feeling.


Cotton wool clouds cocooned the world in grey so you couldn’t quite see the gathering layer of dust. When the sun went to rest from shining through the tall emporium windows, the strip lights flickered and persevered to illuminate the liminal space. Until time resumed, or somebody turned off the lights, there was nothing.


Built with a purpose – to be safe and functional – the concrete landscape was possessed with a spirit that slept. You were not the one these lines were created to serve, so your surveillance meant nothing. You couldn’t fill this space no matter how loud you shouted, therefore you didn’t have a voice. Your heart was melting with the consistency of warm chocolate but the sensation was bitter. Abrusptly suspended, poised on a needle tip. How could this pointless pause be okay?

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