Fire in the Belly - Original Writing Begins with a swallow. Without work a minute or two earlier gives you an advantage over the competition. Travelcard in hand, fingers twitching like an addict on the edge cold turkey, you move straight towards the nearest gate. The smooth action you have practiced thousands of times allows you entry. You are faster than others, more skilled in your passage, the commuter ninja. You take the left side of the escalator, vaguely aware that a tourist will block your descent, not knowing London's rules of engagement. Not today, however, your path is clear, even though those in front of you slow down until they stop a good ten steps from the end. He is an inferior species of traveler, not knowing or understanding the minutiae of the nervous reflexes necessary for a rapid transition from escalator to floor. By applying a small degree of telekinesis you slow down the oncoming train to give you time to reach your favorite spot. The place where these other fools will watch the doors open right in front of you, while looking at the dirty Perspex of a carriage window. You stretch your mind, connecting with the driver, wanting him to slow down in perfect harmony with your position. Wait. A minute on the subway can be an eternity. You will be the first to know of its arrival, you will feel it, you will taste it in the wind, oiled and dry, you will feel its vibration, you will hear its rumble and you will see its light. The other passengers around you will only notice his arrival at the edge of the tunnel, they will not know of his life in the darkness. You see that they are not aware, they do not know the ways of the tube, they are heedless of the mechanical monsters. You are a true traveller