by themapofantarctica

A dream set at night time. Men and women of different professions and classes, drifting from their illuminated doorways as though magnetised, compelled to be outside and associated, all accumulating in the road. The rusted hopes of suburbia parked alongside the pavement, windows reflecting the orange of the street lights. They moved in small steps with eyes wide, turning to check who was present before continuing in a zombie-like shuffle down the street. They were there in a shapeless mass like a cancer, or a mist. Nobody spoke, just exchanged glances and formed a tacit understanding among the group. Something was happening. There were pyjama’s, slippers and dressing gowns. A few cigarettes glowed in the hub, issuing plumes of smoke into the cold air. They stopped, the group, at the end of the road where it split into a T-junction. No lights came down from the skies. This was not otherworldly or cinematic. These people were compelled for tangible reasons. It had happened irrespective of the time. Change was palpable in the feelings of the street. In the minds of its citizens. Eyes blinked and necks craned. Still mute and bemused in the morning. All of these people gathered together and imagining they had a voice, standing there in silence, convinced.