It is silent, there is no one where I am. All is white light silence and smears of colour merging into visions on journeys, then faces drift back into view. And the expensive spread of high class shopping mall, broad, pedestrianised. Tasteful christmas lights wink around objects I’ll never afford. Potted and be-ribboned christmas trees guard entrances to classy bars I’ll never enter. Swing out past the huge bronze statue of the walker, the wanderer, the man who walks the street. Standing fifteen feet high huge stride spanning the square, hard jaw defiantly forward, and loose shouldered swinging arms ending in angry curled fists. He glances shifty eyed behind him, and keeps his face fixed on the unending road ahead, at one and the same time. People scuttle past, without looking, or duck through his long legs late at night when they’ve had a few.From Dato Street to Station Road. We’re heading for the train station as cool as ice, collecting a strange parcel, waiting to check out the Madrid train, or just slipping across the tracks, scrambling over the rails to the far-side of town. Tonight we’re heading for The Cavern Of Dead Machines…more…