London has a shimmery grit. Its ornate facades are stained. Its beautiful places are large, but sideways. The cement kills your feet. The gardens are locked behind gates. Shops and restaurants are either too grand or too grimy for a jet-lagged American tourist.
I love london. It‘s a place you walk through, then wander through, before finding a humanist library hidden in the attic of an old theater.
The oblique grace,
of smirks and sneers,
of canal water and cigarette smell,
of five story toy stores and underground street markets,
of apartments on top of cathedrals
of too many unappealing pubs all in a row,
of tired feet that know the cement will never end but keep walking,
consuming because the endless grey fills them with a hungry fire and a sour passion.
I love london. It‘s a place you walk through, then wander through, before finding a humanist library hidden in the attic of an old theater.
The oblique grace,
of smirks and sneers,
of canal water and cigarette smell,
of five story toy stores and underground street markets,
of apartments on top of cathedrals
of too many unappealing pubs all in a row,
of tired feet that know the cement will never end but keep walking,
consuming because the endless grey fills them with a hungry fire and a sour passion.
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