I feel sick from them the way I do from

I feel sick from them the way I do from mother's milk - it hasn't gone down for me in about forty years. That day I woke up in someone else's place and remembered, how I lost myself along the way. Taking a ticket for the train from King's Cross at a quarter to eight I arrived almost on time: passengers shoved with elbows at the entrance and in the vestibule crushed each other's feet. And you sat in the compartment and quietly cried, and the tears on your face crawled, like drunk mice. They fell, smashed, Just hear us! And quietly hanged themselves by their tails with their own mute questions. I hid behind a book my fake faces - this is the finale with no monologue - On the platform I did notice a Dancing God, he wasn't looking at me. Silence. The knock of wheels. The road.