I feel like I should write about everything that happens and almost happens to me. Like when I went downstairs I flicked my rolled cigarette without even thinking that I should hold it and remove the flame of it. I just let it go through the wet wind of the night to the bottom stare and with a light kerplunk it was dead on the stare. I heard the noise of trucks coming up the hill and I stiffened in my jacket thinking what if it were police. Police coming to investigate in this quiet area why I was out and why I sucked on the end of my tightly rolled cigarette in such a manner to remember a joint. They would stop me and ask for my papers, my passport, to process me. London has this feel of processing. Honor code running their public transport. Honor that people will carry themselves appropriately. Everyone properly getting drunk at the appropriate hour before twelve oclock. Slosh pish poshed fumbling on the granite, in their dress shirts and plain coats and spotted tongues bing bong doors of the tube slide tight shut to carry them home. The women in tweed, plaid, polka dotes, suited, wrapped, painted, and draken. I always feel beyond sober even in my lack of sleep. The lights appear medically bright.