The dead don't die.
The music goes round and round. Same songs. Same playlist. Broadcast in from the great beyond or some little corporate algorithm somewhere.
To this little petrol station on the A759.
Another Ayrshire night under the fluorescent light.
I'm not sure if it's the fumes from the petrol, but the colours stretch and dance. I reach out but I can't touch them, like there is something in the way.
The door is opening and closing and opening and closing.
Is there anyone there?
I kind of hope it's a ghost. It would liven up the wee hours, you know, after the pub crowd have been through for munchies and microwave pizza.
I put the earphones back in and turn up the audiobook.
Zen, find it or burn that place to the ground.
Very instructive.
A car pulls up. I watch it and squint. I can't see the driver, but it moves by slow and steady.
It accelerates out of the forecourt and back down the street.
I watch the taillights disappear.
I take out the little notebook under the counter and I write it down.
Just me and the Zen.
Just me and the life.
Just another seven hours to go.
The dead don't die.
