Along Boar Lane.

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Am I a simple man overwhelmed by layers of bullshit or am I so arrogant looking down at everything I see as layers of crap?

The wound runs deep, but the middle ground is not going to heal over the gap any day soon.

There is nothing here and still I hope that there is. Along Boar Lane the buses run east and people go towards the station or away. What is this I see? It leaves me tedious.

A suit, a hi-visibilty jacket, old and young black lady and white woman, father and son, girl with Caffe Nero in hand. I've half a mind to head to the Angel Inn and speak to someone as it's hardly probable in Tapped as they're more interested in burning pizzas. Number 444 flies eastward to Wakefield: now that it's a depressing town. Boar Lane? Imagine it when the hogs ruled out here? All fields then and no manmade cliffs. When I look up at five stories I feel we've constructed a wall, a canyon, a chasm: a gully where the sky is so narrow that heads are bent against the drizzle.

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