Been down town, to the same old places, familiar faces. The beard and beanie busker, strumming, ignored. The giggling teenagers, impressing each other with outrageous remarks at indifferent strangers. The overly polite shop assistants. ‘Can I help you?’ Not with anything of importance, no. The mentally ill man, shuffling, smiles madly to himself, creating reality out of the apathy in which he lives. Swindon town centre, you groan under the weight of your own insignificance. Your purgatory circle offers delay, a hamburger, rain and despair. There are no bargains here. Everything is for sale, but regret is the only thing that you have to offer.
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