100 words: people are strange - the doors

being a stranger in a place both boisterous and insular.

with everyday objects labeled obliquely, opaque instructions and directions.

darkness comes down, birthing neon glee and sudden raised voices and bursts of foot-scuffling.

like a fight kicking off and running out of steam at the same moment.

like any tourist-town, they have their own language, the one thing they can agree to protect from the mouths and fingers of strangers.

no-one sits still, flitting shrieking from place to place, carrying tales i cannot comprehend.

dotted with scattered international terminology: hotel, motorway, airport, disco and fucking cunts.