Bin bags of the mind.

At quarter to five, a bin bag flew past by the window.

It was plastic and black and so far out the reach of the corner of my eye I wasn’t really sure I had seen at all.

It looked like a black bin bag – a black sheet of plastic perfection flying like a bat out of hell across the small frame of real light silhouetting the small section of Manhattan skyline I could see from my desk.

It flew across the tiny square section of the far away wall that differentiated all I was doing from what I normally do in London.

I was distracted.

I went back to my screen, the LCD lit numbers running over my tired face.

Then I saw it again.

But this time different, triangular and heading down fast at such a velocity it was hard to believe. I didn’t get a close look – I had missed it again.

I got up off my desk and walked to the window across an office of New York telephone calls – the fuck yous, the grovelling, the helpful, the man explaining to his wife he wouldn’t be home again tonight, the woman telling her date she would be late. I walked past the coffee machine and got to the window just as the sun set across Mid Town, the buildings scrapping the sky, screaming at the pink light reflecting off each other’s ambitious glory.

But there was nothing.

As I stared up along a high view down an endless Avenue - I considered theories.

The bat or spider like nature of my gotham city aberration had not gone unnoticed by the plagiarizing parts of my psyche.

The only valid conclusion was garbage.

Floating on the air trying to find a way out – out of the city to find a nice beach to retire on.