Friday, July 29, 2005

insomnia strikes
at three-thrity in the morning
sweat-soaked toss-and-turn.

Thursday, July 07, 2005




I first stepped foot in King's Cross station on 9 Sept. 95. It was old and drab, carved out of soot-covered exposed brick like it has seen better days. Nothing like glass and steel Euston station up a ways.

But I got to know the station as that year went on _ most of the Scotland-bound trains departed there, and the platforms held both the giddy promise of vibrant London and the solemn embrace of the journey home.

From the rail platform, it's a short hike to the Piccadilly line, stopping at the West End theater district, SOHO, Chinatown, Piccadilly Circus. I would ride it to the end _ Heathrow (this was before the airport express) _ when my time was up.




For this jewel of a city, its thousand-years history; where I caught my first bout of wanderlust; a metropolis to the world where I met and bid goodbye to romances now only alive in faded photos and memory;

I weep