‘Excuse me Squire, you couldn’t spare £900 for a night in a swanky hotel?’ The homeless man asks the businessman in a tight alley of Dickensian shops.
This is the place Jack the Ripper adjusted his hat, so they say, and stores seem dusty and perpetually closed. The passage doesn’t offer space to reveal the names. It is a clotted vein between a throbbing haste to the station and faceless brick silence; the street the developers forgot or took pity on and left behind.
In a confused, short way it leads to a grey square of polished shoes of post work gatherings. A herd of skateboarders circle a square with faces covered in black scarves like little terrors on wheels.
Beneath rolling noise echoes a whistled tune. La Vie en Rose slowed? The whistler pulls around a short white dog that matches his hair. All together man,dog and song match a figure that whistled by a lake, weeks before, miles away. Can they be the same..
The lake here is concrete slates, the benches are concrete block but they appear the same.
Essay pages curl, photocopy papers read clamped to a bent knee. The last words are Baudelaires.
.the fantastic reality has become singularily diluted.’