Concrete
Today I ran up five flights of stairs, brushing past startled figures. There's something wonderfully futile about racing someone in a lift, something deliciously juvenile. You hurl yourself up stairs, hoping that you'll get up far enough before your body realises what you're doing and starts the ache that accompanies each slap of shoe against concrete. Gasped laughs of the person behind echo up the stairwell - everyone who enters this strange world hears the distorted rippling punctuated by a slamming door.
Back in the real world, both of us walk at a measured pace- professionally and purposefully, nodding politely to faces we know.
Nobody notices the twitching of mouths as we stifle our laughter.
Back in the real world, both of us walk at a measured pace- professionally and purposefully, nodding politely to faces we know.
Nobody notices the twitching of mouths as we stifle our laughter.