Like a glitch in the system, that never really happened.
Like a shaking glass on the desk by the window, moving on its own, no force of nature, no divine intervention, purely just a moving cup, that seems to obscure itself from everyone else's vision.
Like when they play the creepy music in the movies and you sit on the back row thinking 'what is this crap?', but there are over a dozen people in front of you mesmerised by what they see on screen.
Like the bus which turns the corner, the no. 25, with the bedraggled old woman staring bleakly out the window, spraying you with that puddle of water you knew was there.

You're not plastered or hung-over, you haven't overdosed on caffeine tablets, or shot yourself with a morphine injection, this isn't a bad dream, or a good one. You didn't give blood today or smoke a joint as you rolled in this morning, you didn't even get out on the wrong side of the bed.
But you walk through life not really knowing why some things occur. This day that seems to happen over and over and over. Why no one ever finds it odd bothers you.

Like the clock hands that move round in a timely fashion, swooping to reach nine.forty and then spinning around in an hours shift to reach nine.forty once again. No one notices.
Like the old flickering lamppost, at the end of the street, which only flickers in the early hours of 5 am and 6.14 am, rectifying itself at 6.31pm when it's turned on.
Like the bus which turns the corner, the no. 25, with the bedraggled old woman staring bleakly out the window, spraying you with that puddle of water you knew was there.

Like the sobbing girl on the side of the road, doubled over showing her bear back, shaking with fear in heels that were not made for her, the girl that everybody stares at while passing.
Like the young kid outside the entrance of the east gate train station, who stands in the pivotal point of traffic, handing out the same rejected flier, once, twice, three times.
Like the bus which turns the corner, the no.25, with the bedraggled old woman staring bleakly out the window, spraying you with that same puddle of water you knew was there.
Why no one ever finds it odd doesn't bother you anymore.

But the man sitting on the street corner, in a hand knitted woollen hat, carrying that constant unshaven face, moulded with dirty scars, wrapped in the same floral cotton duvet, from the late 80's that you have sitting in the back of your linen closet, the one you never use. He sees it all and if you looked at him you would see the glint in his eye that says,
HE knows.