Snow tatters itchy distortions on my hair. Looking at East Finchley tube map but only just realising it. I didn't look back for her. Was it the right move? Chancery Lane station, central. East Finchley in the north. Canning Town, far-east, where I will soon be meeting Agna's parents. In three hours time. Who could help me to get there? My brain cuts establishing routes. The only way down. With seedy adrenaline, stains all about. Guava didn't care. Real people shouldn't. Or maybe she did, which is why she left me here. The worst time to meet anyone. Agna's parents were right to always doubt me. To go and see them now, only to prove them wrong. It'll be too late to go home first. Steady myself on the handrails down to open-air platforms. On stiff knees, sickly fast beats. Towards seats, jolted surprise at a woman of numerous hoods or seated sleeping bags. Like the day is dead - where all the real people? Only us ghosts left.

Three pounds in my pocket to give. Surely I should wait for her to ask? Desperate to hand them over. Only to impress the spirit of Guava maybe. Or just because I'm recovering so I shouldn't. She might think I'm harassing her if I small-talk. Eight minutes for the train back to Central London. Park myself away from the homeless woman, where I'll see the train first in such snow. Why shouldn't I give her money? Racing mind makes it all so slowed. And no train-lights anywhere in the distance. My body of drugged sweat pre-empts underground cloying everywhere. No need to sit or stand. Nothing in the tunnel but snowfall. No sight of movement. Me and Guava could be exploring those stones besides the tracks. The pile of clothes wails. Guava would tell her to shut up. The tube rears. Fastest point of contact. Best place for someone like her to stand. Never seen it happen. Furthest away from possibly seeing Guava again. WeSellHomez tomorrow. Things haven't improved. Agna's parents now or never. Worse in snow. White-mind. Her screech like nothing matters. Over and through.
        
Inside the carriage. Too much energy to sit. Sickly to stand. Desperate to leave for a snatch. Is the madwoman still around? Is it me? If I go in two-milliseconds, Guava will think I'm stalking. To knock on her door or wait outside for twenty minutes thinking. To wander through traffic. Sitting outside the station I'd be told off for begging. And we still haven't left. My frozen consciousness. It will close now. Where's steps? What electrical train-hums? Who hobbles slow stairs? Sprint to the top like I'm dead.
        
Maybe two of us went downstairs. Now I emerge from the scuffle. Maybe she went under and stopped it all. Snow funnels around, the wide road and long buildings. Traffic lights of the station. Message her later. You must. Guava Z's townscape. She might not respond after our last poor interactions. Busy for the next three weeks. By then we might not get around to meeting at all. How didn't I go home with Pella, Mella, Artur instead? What of Agna?
        
Unable to cross the green man twice without a predominant thought. Say I was groggy at the end. Maybe give it two days. Scan the shop-uppers like my own place. No - Agna's dad going on about all the dross properties he owns. Down the longest-looking road is the right direction, wherever it goes. A ten-mile walk is needed to make sense of this all. Artur could soon be in touch to find out. Next time I'll release my whole energy. Should've taken more drugs now I've survived. The distance so far back to true life progression. This was the moment. Far exceeding all the times with Agna. No longer play-acting. Why further? Where to possibly vomit? What energy to walk? To sit in the nearest A&E of a mental institution could be the best day possible.