Buchanan Bus Station

Pollok Road. That day, everything solid seemed to float.

The weather pointed towards a horizon that felt already lived through, the kind where, the moment your foot touches the ground, your whole body begins a crossing through a bed of clouds.

A dense vapour from a time when rain still soaked into life fogged the window of the blue car. Victorian buildings passed one by one, in a farewell as colourful as the bricks they were made of.

There is a certain charm in monochrome things: they all say goodbye in silence.

A bark tore through the flesh of the moment’s vertigo, as the bus station appeared in the present tense. It became a brick-brown mass, soaked with the tears the Scottish sky sheds daily.

A cursed sigh crouched low.

Crossing the street, wrapped tight in a blue denim jacket, he startled: the concrete seemed like a stream.