Reading Iain Sinclair’s Edge of the Orison on the train this morning. His description of the London commute threatened to pale an otherwise beautiful autumn morning:
“London snorts human meat through metalled tubes. And later exhales the de-energised husks, its wage slaves.”
He’s right for the most part, but it’s not good to be reminded of it mid-journey.
I’m luckier than some. Work in the arts. Write all day. But I know how it feels to face this unavoidable daily tawdriness. Did it for years and nearly went mad.