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The knife of your vision flattens and carves up lines of daylight. Your inner space contours, colours the pieces of planet you walk amongst, and the long shadows play to your feelings, whether they be of splendour or of ghostliness.

Impressionist reveries shimmer on the river’s face. A dog’s tranquillity echoes from the placid obsidian of its eyes. Buttercups hijacked from a meadow tour the city like a carnival float, strapped to a Lada’s roof, thrilled to be going at such speed.


Towers and statues guard this place, keepsakes of simpler, bloodier times. Does the spirit in which they were made endure? Or is it too far gone, diluted like a tear in the sea of the new world?

Perhaps it doesn’t matter. So you might think, strolling through the shadows of monochrome skyscraping honeycombs, a child of the river destined to concrete. The river – you can only watch it and sometimes keep it company, give it your company for some moments of its sad, endless journey.

Return to it now. Back to its banks. Your feet brush wet petals, railroad tracks.


What if the river is getting lonely as it waits for you?


The thought is absurd, but it quickens your step.

Words by John Martin

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