The (futile) Ghost part 27

Fat fuckers eating mr whippy with flake, octogenarian stumbling by guided by that ankled stamp. Pop goes the bubble of over chewing gum; like Lolita but not cute. At the transit of Albion Place and Land's Lane. Some unauthorized hustlers is checked by community support officers. 'who do you think you're talking at?' speaks mother into handset. And they with paper and plastic carriers rush like unwanted flyers blown or flotsam washed high on dirty sand. Up and down while the wind gathers the clouds to pour away the nothing. The man with temporary fancy blowing bird like forever. What an absolute waste: just let me slap yours empty hands!
If I could bulldoze all the shops, cafés, restaurants, office blocks, cinemas, petrol stations: what would we have left? Monuments, churches, schools, facilities and many bemused individuals.