In this pale shadow of a city, by day a wanderer, by night a ghost, among discontented souls held together only by a thread, disperse we to our arbours of loneliness to look for a corpuscle of unity. A wall of coalition quickens the stride like a magnet drawing iron filings.
Past wreckages of factories, cars and pubs, it is a constant journey of rediscovery, the same show over.
We wheel our dustbins of concerns about with us, each with a different load, but cannot get it taken away. We meet fellow travellers passing us, piling things on their trolleys in a supermarket selling only misery and willingly pay dearly for it. We have paid for it many times over by the time we reach the check-out, but do not realize it.
Back to the country, away from the cloistered city, where we sold our souls, must we return, to the soil where we left our roots in kinship.
The soil-less, soul-less city lays waste to us like hail.
You're at the bottom!