Borough Market, London

Borough Market London. 

Under the ironwork canopy the air tastes like salt and citrus.

You eat hot chips by the Thames at midnight, shoulders hunched from the wind, ketchup packets in your pocket. 

You stumble into a pub because it smells like wet coats and familiarity. And inside, someone’s telling a story they’ve told too many times, and it still works.

Laughter climbs the old iron ribs and settles in the bones. For a moment you're not chasing time. 

The world is noisy and kind and it tells me to eat well and carry on. 

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