Train to the Edge of the Moon
Weak raindrops were pouring down her leather jacket. It was raining every day lately, and she missed the warmth of Italian sun. Yet Punk couldn’t leave London just like that. It wasn’t just some place for her. She considered London to be a he. A breathing creature with his virtues, weaknesses and vices. His violent dynamism was intoxicating. It would bring her joyful moments of light mixed with deep secrets of a black soul. At first, his huge size and activity caused her dizziness and it took her a while to adjust.
Punk was waiting for them in front of the Oxford Circus tube. Her long, brown hair was tangled by the strong wind. These days it wouldn’t allow her to breathe consciously. A frozen glimmer of the sun appeared on the gray sky, buried behind the dark clouds. But no one bothered to spot it happening above the vivid city life. Punk was like a single shadow that ran within the turmoil of passing strangers on Oxford Street. Quick and invisible like a current of the wild river.
Sometimes the wave of London’s beauty would throw her into unknown dangerous waters, sinking her with anxiety and astonishment. The city is very demanding. He doesn’t want you. He wants all of you; pushing you inside his unique core of riot. And if you’re not strong or confident enough he will spit you out like a piece of used shred. He will devour all your vigor, leaving you with naked ass hid in the bushes.
Punk resembled London in many ways. But she couldn’t stay alive like he did. She could feel life only through glass. It made her hungry and eager to try and live it all. Mostly in homelessness and detachment.
Yet when she saw her two lovers emerging from the stream of dim sunlight a delicate glow covered her pale cheeks. It looked like a smile. She was less scared now after all they’d been through, but she still couldn’t get used to feeling this way.
Someone said she was beautiful and untouchable. So where did all this ugliness come from? Was it her illusion? Was it their notion? Was it even real?