And yet another dumb protagonist, all inner life, asocial, dwells in tunnels built for trains the City has outgrown.


In darkest sanctuary He considers.  Tunnels above him.   City above  tunnels.  Sky above the City.

Then what?

Space. Darkness. Infinities of Nothing beyond the sun, moon and stars he hasn’t seen in months.

How long since the sky?

A womb of space He shares with She. Separate from, but connected to and at times  communicating with  fellows of a kind with He and She:

like maledictions of the species; and scattered, parasitic others that remain, not welcome, but as yet unharmed.

Rats aloof, big as bears, and vicious.

She comes to him with food procured by runners who deal daily with the light and traffic, hands and markets, of Above.

He and She will never scavenge among them in the light. Among them, in the noise. No. Not again.

Better to Live, He and She, than to Survive.

It is what it is. Read other articles by Xero.