When catching a ride after dark I often tip-toe eagerly over the beige bumps and past the yellow warning line to peer down onto the the rail - squinting to pick up any slight scurry, any tell-tale dash. I feel people's eyes on me, wondering no doubt if I've dropped something or had one too many. But no, I just want to see the mice. They somehow make the hollow shell of the underground seem a bit more natural. After all, they were there long before the flashing lights, noisy trains, and McDonald's wrappings. They seem refreshingly out of place dodging heels and discarded beer bottles as if they don't mind living amongst the crowds and litter. There's something almost mystical about them too - as if any second they could transform into dancing warriors to take on toy soldiers or free a powerful lion from wickedly bound ropes. So I watch them expectantly, waiting for what could happen. I'm disappointed when they don't come out. It feels like being little and not wanting to turn the page of Goodnight Moon until I'd found the hidden character.
Goodnight stars
Goodnight air
Goodnight noises everywhere
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