with oh so many eyes & he was tacking up that street on wet tarmac & it was a quarter past three in the morning again. It was a street as long as ever & he slip-knotted along it in long strides. However, he did not trip because HE NEVER DOES TRIP. At a quarter past three on a similar night HE TRIPPED & fell towards the one door which was not bolted against him. As he flinched towards this SUCKING DOOR, this PIN-HOLE DOOR, he loosened his collar & sharpened his step on the CUT-GLASS, DOG-GREASE pavement. Soon he gained a looming MOON-SPLATTERED wall of scaffolding. Through a chipped-off arch he scoffed, then broke his way in... There were no witnesses YET STILL THEY JEERED. They tickled one another whilst gumming tea, groomed one another & rocked & spied through bullet proof curtains out of fear tinted rooms. Slipping deeper within, looking back, he saw those windows shutting. He saw the smears on the windows running & smelled jealously the tea soaked bodies squatting within. He saw the underside of the city, &, flattened by that, the other end of his life reflected in the windows. He saw his old shadow, & he saw the dark stained glass now missing from the windows. He crossed the street another time whilst crossing himself whilst dodging a Molotov cocktail, then shoved himself through that aching door...

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