1 The constraints: 1) No more than
one hour. 2) No more than 20 lines.
The result ? Genius or Not.

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06 August 2010

By Kate Lermitte Campbell | 2010 August 06

Mind the gap. No I don’t: personally I find the post-box slip of nothing between train and track quite attractive, like the sudden hush when the lights go down and everyone knows the film’s about to start.  

The doors shut, the carriage jolts and lines begin to stretch between his hat, her shoes, their eyes, that finger pointing left that grazes the buckle on my bag, the boy swinging round the pole with the spiral on the ad, a foreign accent and the bottle in the duty free bag, until the space is saturated and if it was to freeze would thought freeze with it? The curved lining of this industrial intestine magnifies here an eye there an ear like those bits of ourselves we splay blindly over the hero or the heroine as we sit stolid in the dark our pupils dilated with desire. What’s absorbed? Vacant stares and apathetic limbs distilled produce what? Something, I’m sure, that pushes up electric sending a streetlamp flickering or a gutter spewing froth like a salivary gland. Squeezed like lemons those bits of us we never use retract and as she sighs he lets his eyelids drop until:  

Slam on the brakes as light filters through the dust on the film that unrolls to the screech of tracks. Shaved close, hot and clean the metal twitches like a nerve and above the pavement trembles like skin.

A forest of hands clutch reach sway grab, so warm so bare when they touch by chance they leave tattoos like faces glimpsed in crowds that refuse to disperse even when you’ve turned and walked away.

Trapped in this dim-lit organ could I re-make you from the scraps at hand – taking here a smile, there a frown, re-moulding a leg, dying a shirt?  

Is the person waiting there (if your early that is) you or someone else? Somehow it matters more the less I know. You.  

Mind the gap.  

Traveling up the oesophagus I caress rubber veins.

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