At the still point of the turning world

I regretted the flaming sambukas, the tokes and the 3.30 bedtime as Nicolai drove us to the station in Toulouse 
How old do you have to be to learn?  Or maybe you never do.
All the world is heading to the sea and the Montpelier bound side of the motorway is a three way car park.
We're headed the other way, towards a summer ghost city. 
The radio's on a circular news reel and it don't sound good. Drastic global warming and anti-vax protesters hitting the streets, with anti-semitic undertones to boot.  
Talk, talk, talk until you lose your patience
It's apocalyptic and messy and my head hurts.
We follow the canal into the centre of town. At the red lights I try to decipher the bridge graffiti but none of it makes any sense.  
I pull myself together, realising that I have to navigate Toulouse and get myself home alone.
With Nico gone, Bernstein shifts from the back seat to the front, his weight upsetting the car's computer which beeps and wails and hurts my head. 
We go down to the river where someone has taken a whole lot of time to make a pool of still water with the current flowing either side.  
Every cell in my contradictory mind cries out that you don't disturb river stones (unless you're a dog and want to bugger your teeth up) but this was rather beautiful and for a moment we were still while the world spun around us.