It is uncommonly silent in this city. The lights like ward lights, stillness like before rounds. Adrenaline and two sugars, bush-baby eyed, I sit with no-one whose heart beats as hard and short as mine. Shallow breaths inflate a tight chest; then deep, inspiring London's slow hot-box garage suicide: panting morse code, goodbye. The strip lights and opaque black windows cancel the familiar must-see sights of dated packaging and wasted space - now we are the view.