O loneliness. Every city has a thousand phantoms walking in it and i am but one. And all the phantoms seem to whisper, as they step forward, as their eyes flicker, faces hesitantly turning away- "There is no city but this, there is no city but this."
Western civilisation's greatest and most meaningless achievement has been the concrete pavement and the lonely crowd walking thereupon.
An old sexual brewery smell, magical, moneyed, expansive like battlements and respectable cadavers. A sad taxicab sexcrime got in the papers. Skeletal homeless and drunkards look on joyless and stoical.
A mad old guy stops me in the street. He has a great Russian bearskin hat and huge purple alcoholic nose. He tells me blankly that he had expected the museum (the building we are standing in front of) to be open. I explain patiently (for he seems hard of hearing) that it is not a museum but a theatre, and as such is not open to the public. "I thought i was gonna have a walk roun' and look at all the artefacts." he says with a strangely childish moroseness. He then shuffles off down the street, huffing, with his humble porous nose. A guileless search for "artefacts".... I think that maybe he was a Glaswegian.
.... What a traitor is desire, what a false friend is pasion.
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