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We’re not panicking, she whispers, though a sheen of sweat passes cold across her high forehead.

Under the non-London streets, her feet feel the threatening thrum – a dirty noise, driven on by pissed off passion- loose fit and left out.

In the corner lurks a clown whose hand scribbled signs remind her of how low she’d go, how far she’s come.

As his painted features fade to the panic made of pit deep fear, she wakes, eyes wide, heart bruising the brushed cotton sheets.

Fuck, she breathes, easing herself out of the dark night, into the bright Chelsea streets.

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