Earlier I see a woman with foil on her hair like a shining tree. Spring
is toothless as a mystic, missing idiot. The Mall is ripe, bloody with Valentine's,
men swirl around the cards, in pain. Sometimes the atmosphere here is thick
as bastards... we trot our paths like half asleep, sticking our kids on plastic.

A portal opens upwards. A lift bings and there we see a goose fat poet harping
on, still thinking. A crack runs along the narrative, a blind need. People hobble
through BHS with nothing to buy. Once a bird flew in and smashed itself into
darkness, a panic that ran through us like splendour.