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segunda-feira, 3 de outubro de 2016

It's Saturday morning Mr. John Smith!

Jumping stairs, running through flying corridors missing London history painted in the walls, the only purpose was arriving before brexit will stop me, Schengen will ask me questions, the Pound became my final currency.
I miss the royal family welcoming travelers in the bottom of the stairs in a mural built of pieces of old newspapers.
I was number one crossing lonely electronic borders.
I took 17 minutes to catch the city express.
I was hurry to arrive to 

It's Saturday morning Mr. 

NS is missing, Is NS around?
I'm NS, but I'm not missing
Could it be other NS?
Ah, common name, like John Smith

I sat behind a blonde shadow in city express.
A blonde reflected in a window full of grey tones, blurring country fields, hopefully green before arriving to the in construction London site.
The blonde didn't disappear with fog, emerged in tunnel lights.
Warm welcome to Deutsche Bahn trains, bringing glamour and wagon- restaurants from euro zone.
Even blonde smiles. I saw her smile through the window mirror

It's Saturday morning Mr. John Smith, in great Victoria Station, a Queen's memorial to all crowds of the empire.
Hello Mr. John Smith - it's a crowd appeal
And I felt like a human statue, proud of having twenty minute's break, so proud that I was the only standing human being, staring the shadows running to anywhere, as if I shoot my camera in a slow speed, with a Nero espresso in my right hand and a British cookie in the other hand.
Faces, steps, bags, legs and trolleys surrounding my cookies, my espresso
Looking at me as a dangerous and suspicious black hair guy that happens to arrive to soon to Saturday morning in Victoria (The Queen) Station.
You said Mr. What?