Tinny pop music fanfares the gaggle of girls already drunk from their pre’s clutched together on the back of the train.

And when their stop comes they sashay off, dresses hardly containing their stir-crazy breasts.

They are fast replaced by tow-headed boys in collared shirts, their jawlines chiselled by their fathers’ blood.

They make plans to hunt in sport for the fleeting beasts in their dens. Beasts with windows to the skin above their hearts too calloused to still call tender.

And they drink tomorrow’s joy and they scream to feel alive.