I don’t want to equalize myself in an attempt to make being here ok. I scream at a taxi driver whose horn sounds at me, legit, as I breeze across an intersection. I am at odds. No one screams here. I realise the position I am in, feeling suffocated by this society, an overreaction in the first few minutes after a shocking confrontation, of being able to decide to leave this country. I could. Go back to my country (subtext, better country). I remember the anger, coursing through my veins almost every day as I crossed London on my bike, to work, to the library. Somewhere safe. An exotic bird screams itself coarse nearby, through my window.