Sometimes I lie face down on the floor. I imagine the weight of my body crushing my chest bone, splitting my ribs, then my breast plate, then gradually forcing my innards, then my spine, through the floorboards, eventually dissolving into the space between the floor, and the ceiling of the flat below.
Sometimes I list all the ways this bus journey could end. Car crash. Sideswiped by lorry. Hit by train whilst stuck on level crossing. Caught in power cables. Caught in flood and swept away. Caught in lava flow and swept away. Buried by avalanche. Hit by meteorite. Car bomb. Drone strike. Mistaken for troop carrier, and riddled with bullets. White phosphorous. Sinkhole.
Sometimes I don’t think about this at all.
John Boursnell is a writer and artist living in Glasgow. Twitter: @johnboursnell
Image: Urbanity fails again by John Koonce (Creative Commons)
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