A woman walking through the streets.
A despaired look upon her face. Not so much worried as just sad. But not exactly sad, more detached. Not quite in tune with her surroundings. She wears a coat and a skirt but these seem insubstantial to her. They could be any clothes. Although the way she clings to them is as if they are the only things that are truly real. As she walks through the streets she passes the traffic. She passes the people but does not speak to them. She sees a person, taller than herself standing at a street corner. She goes and stares up at them. Then walks on.
She passes seedy shops for it is [maybe] night-time and their neon glow is the only different coloured light there is, a contrast to the yellow of the street lamps and windows high above. She stops at one place and picks up a magazine. Some modern thing is on it. Somebody's face. The woman stares at it, looks distraught and puts it down and continues walking.
She boards a bus.
She is the only one on it. It is a double-decker. She is on the top deck. Sitting about half way back on the right hand side. The city is going past the bus. Rooftops, the pavement, etc.
She eventually gets off the bus. It seems as if the whole world is against her. Everybody seems to be together in pushing against her.
She continues her lonely walk. Always glancing at things. Peripheral vision. Juttery movements. She walks through a park. Looking at signs, any signs. Litter signs, signs with writing. Out of the park now. Past a shop with televisions. Looking in at them with worry on her face as they show the friendly images of gameshow hosts and family presenters. Next she walks past a shop which has a video-camera attached to a television so she is looking in on her face. She just stares, unable to fully comprehend it seems. She runs on, hand at her mouth.
Later she has calmed down. She is still walking with her coat wrapped around her. The wind blowing her hair. Giving off the impression of being cold. But cold of what? Cold from the chilling wind or cold from this strange time, this world in which she inhabits and yet feels or rather looks so detached. No-one knows what she is really feeling underneath, but all who seem to see her are questioning, or they should be. Instead they just look away, uncaring, only concerned on themselves. But that is how it has always been. But now it seems harsher, colder as is her reception to others even though her heart is warm.
She gets on a tube, walks through the bustling people. She walks along the streets. Sees a plane up above and stares up at it until it is gone.
She comes to a cinema and goes in side. As she sits down, she is the only person in the cinema. A film is showing. It is her on the bus. She looks at it in not quite disbelief but more anguish. She breaks down into tears, sitting there in that cold cinema with its red seats; Trapped between two ages in this, we call the modern world, waiting until it becomes itself and throws away the pre-modern world to become the post-modern. The anguish is always there…...