As a London commuter, I’m constantly trying to arrive somewhere as quickly as humanly possible. I scour tube maps to establish the most direct route, shout at taxis that miss my slightest gesture and curse buses, only three minutes apart that deign to shut their doors on me.
At the beginning of Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood, a voice breaks through the silence: “Time passes. Listen. Time passes”. Such a clever line, if acted properly, really does make time stand still.
The only sound is my heart beating into my full, heavy ears as I glide weightlessly through my slippery surroundings, guided only by the beam of a flashlight.