Here -
Where...small talk clouds swiftly dug passages to the next world...Where...fractured gang lines decide night time movement...
Where...the slow of foot shadow wooden shovel...
Where...the painted path, that divides day, disappears like the canal bridge into glassy undergrowth...
Where...glances do not go unnoticed and powerful voices weaken after each glass..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
