walker

I walk (it's what I do) for the memory of Steve Aston, of childhood walks along Dick Turpin's old hunting highways littered now with leaf matter, railway cuttings and alarmed blackbirds . . . but now I'm a peregrinator in the City, falling in step with a different pace and finding so many questions . . .

blood stains on a pavement in the shape of a palm tree . . .

A mood of timidity and exhaustion here, tangible in the air, giving the end of the week a slight holiday feel at 7.43am, an expectation of free days to come perhaps?