I stand, in the midst of a thousand crossing souls, in between four red bricked whitewashed walls. In that moment I glance up, watch the hands on the grand horloge ticking away. Which moves faster – the slim long metal hand or the crossing steps of the crowd? The bright chatter that echoes off the same four whitewashed walls, floats up to the vaulted ceiling and descends like a blanket over the sharp pluck of a guitar string.
I blink, and turn to go.