Sleepwalking

Staring into computer screen, 4 in the morning, watching the darting images of a web page scrolling. Text filters down, half-unread, best bits picked, they call this surfing. A song plays as background music; sounds surround the ears, then filter off into a distant tinnitus where the headphones hit the floor. And here it comes to the opening of doors. Movements through landings and down stairs, entering bathroom, lifting the lid, piss flowing singularly, a winding spurt into toilet, then flushes. Hands wash and dry selves off, preparations before the late night walk. Out there in droves of silence where there’s few people listening and few people talking. Shoes and jacket get put on and door closes interiors behind. Locks for security, in empty house, with cohabiter gone home for weekend visit.
Out in the cold, for a walk more illicit, in passing dark streets and wasteland lit orange, the limited spheres of influence. In rows of lights going off into distances, as the surrounding city sleeps. Down hills and traffic over-spills of late night boy races, round corners, and up streets over sleeping policemen. And to junctions and crossroads, with surrounding streets of curb crawler red lights, rumbling along roads 5 hours per mile, taking in sights. But vacant of girls for sale, maybe gone to so-called home, maybe further along, instead take the University trails. Past the ramblers of nightclub endings, from basement to house parties, or to sleep or to sex with former stranger, or well known partner, or some form of fun or other, or maybe just alone.
Unanswered messages, replies while walking and talking on phones, as lonely insomniac sleepwalker makes in ways past man made hills and man made parkland. Through the gorges of concrete alleyways and neon blue illuminations, out onto the great road. Crossing streets slowly, vacant of cars and usual frustrations, an all-side death trap by day. And there, homeless guy, usual spot by the student shops and takeaways. Last times seeing him reading a book or stoned to his eyeballs, giving change either way, as he says how cold it is. Never asking how he got there, not knowing his story, moving on down, not seeing his past.
Now further on, to alleged ‘West End’, to half-hearted attempt, to the empty clubland, dissecting the urban superstructure; residential, academic, commercial in sequence, treading over shards of broken glass. Reaching city centres, these boxes of civic pride, standing ornamented, weeds growing from the sides. And squares not so square and shopping streets not so straight, climbing up hills for vantage points, for views and cityscapes. Through regeneration thoroughfares, cranes and dusty roads, walking lonesome for some purpose, to blocks of flats with a few lights on, the early morning risers. Standing here just in time for when the night fades to day, as orange lights blip off, replaced by sun, and searching through pockets. Switched on and lens targeted, ready for the shot, from valley bowls of carbuncles to clock towers, with sunlight casting gold. And here taking photograph of transition period, thinking about urban expanse past former walls and keeps. Thinking here just thinking, of nocturnal half-life, and how this is what I do, while everybody sleeps.