Page He prescribes the subject he proscribes outsiders his terms have a golden ring. He wants to find some order quantifying chaos in words that all the children sing. He tabulates the lexicon vocabulary minimised bow down to the Jargon King. All questions become so simple if we eat the inane answer if we all agree to ju-ju speak we fit into the formula we all without exception approve the rule. Bow down to the Jargon King and his minion code-words.
Buildings loom up like icebergs on collision course.
I don't want to go in there, I just want to be alone, unpick the stitches of time in London in the no-go zone. I've been kicking around like a dog, lost myself in the blank mass of fog, it's some kind of service. Since the curfew the streets are half-dead, all the good folk asleep in their beds, it's so easy to go off the rails when the fog spores are breeding inside by head. Fogwalking through the wreckage, fogwalking through the worm-eaten Night Apple, fogwalking through what used to be Whitechapel. And they call that living a normal life, but normality's not standardised.