chrisbhanlon

The days roll into the next, sunsets come and go, this evening’s cloud frieze of broken shapes comes in from the west. White haired gent who could be a banker is in actual fact a musician; he is at the kerbside where the street has been taped off; his name is Rat Scabies; he stares dreamily at a piece of aubergine night sky while he waits for my taxi to pull up.

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