Kensington — a hulk of something fallen, vaporised, life abandoned a very long time ago, a monument to the past 

Westminster — much joy and much fatigue all at once, and much emptiness 

City — happiness leaps up and lingers on my face 

Greenwich — a good wind of freedom, a very different land, a seaside resort and ships preparing to sail away

Canning Town is dog-headed people, blistered land, but only as far as the island, as far as the red bridge over the River Lee. Beyond that, there is the happiness of a good dormitory, the intellectual sprung joy of work

Strand — joy joy joy swells upwards, from the road to the church and beyond, from Somerset House to the river, everywhere, lavishly

Piccadilly — absolute dead rush, a desert without eyes, clicking

Hackney — frantic pursuit of the pleasure of fitting in

Hampstead — happiness of secluded wildness

We are all made up of particles, and they vibrate to a very personal rhythm

And so the places do, having their vibe and sound

With some places our rhythm builds to a beautiful symphony
and some into a cacophony of disharmony

and with people.

It’s like that for me, and it may be completely different for you. 

The metaphysical kind of walking that I practice can be found at (names) — it’s a contact with the spirit of a place, their portrait through momentary glimpses, within my body connecting all the dots of a vast mosaic (not a mosaic, but what? a rebus? a maze?) to see what will reveal itself

I lived in it for two years and I didn’t even see a third of it, but I saw something. I saw something.