Mixtape

New York
Prague
Den Haag
København
Kate Moss

Rain blurs the schedule at the stop. Umbrellas rise and fall, a question with every step. Puddles reflect only unanswered invitations. Bus numbers glide past, barely noticed. Somewhere, a sandwich wrapped in wax paper is forgotten.

Cats cross fences with purpose, tails inked against the night. Car horns stitch a lullaby. A window glows, then fades; two receipts drift down an alley. “Meet you at the corner?” The city shrugs, noncommittal. Yellow paint chips from lane lines, direction uncertain. Spare change forgotten in a payphone, dial tone humming. A squiggle of graffiti marks the brick — no signature, only intent. Vans rattle by, indifferent to ritual. Night returns everything. A backpack slumps against the bench at dusk. Earbuds tangled, a playlist leaks between breaths. “Next stop?” the driver calls, the question mostly rhetorical. Shoes tap the curb. All arrivals provisional.

Messages blink on the cracked screen. All passwords are secrets now. Shopping lists grow thin, corners curling in the pocket. “Back in five”—taped to the door, optimism in adhesive. Nobody minds the wait.

Thirteen stairwells run beneath the city’s heart. On floor 7, the hallway blurs at midday — two doors left ajar, countless stories. Footsteps echo: one, two, three, forget.