72.  Monday afternoon.

I’ve entered a new phase, a very relaxed phase, no priorities, no pressure, different agenda, different occupations.  No occupation.

We’re about to start at the beginning again with a “lockdown” starting on Thursday.  I wish there was a better word for it than that word.  A “duration”, an “invert”?  Perhaps more enigmatic, less mechanical and tabloid style sensation-seeking.

In Woolwich now, early afternoon.  I must get home in time, we have a conference call at 5pm, I get nervous about them now.  The emails are worded with sugary feelgood language which tires my emotions.  I’m worn out by it now, I’ve run out of reactions to give.  I don’t care enough about it all now, so I don’t react at all.  I don’t think anyone else really cares about my reactions anyway.  They are all maintaining their own narrative.  If my thoughts don’t align they don’t count, I become invisible.  Unpersonned.

There are two men opposite, one thin with a dark woolly hat, he exposed a lot of torso flesh earlier when removing a layer.  Not unattractive.  A bit of a ravaged face, pale smooth skin, dark hair and eyes, close body contact with his friend.

I’ve corresponded on and off lately with a punk poet in Halifax, who I may have been adjacent to in previous years.  He is part of one of the known families there.  He performs.  Performance poetry, and poetry in general, are genres I often fail to engage with, but I read his and understand parts.  He refers to places I know, people, the past.  He doesn’t know who I am, he hasn’t asked, but he appears open and accepting.  His grandfather died recently, and he wrote a poem in tribute.  I immediately recognised him, an eccentric well dressed Jamaican man with an open top car playing Jackie Wilson’s Reet Petit around town.  Keiron has dark hair, very dark eyes, tattoos on upper arms, serious West Yorkshire accent.  The thin guy opposite reminded me a bit of him, less articulate though, although how do I know that?  Perhaps I don’t.  I don’t.

I’m running out of energy now.  I’ll have to go home soon.  This is the last of this life, it achieves so little of worth.