Sunday 1st July


A day cocooned in city heat, broken only by the dust blown in our faces
as we trudge through tunnels beneath the feet that smooth the face of the
sour streets. The vital rhythm of a city, the thing that prevents it from
crashing into it’s self disintegrates into random acts of conscious thinking
when we tourists come to town. The etiquette of standing on the right of
escalators is only the tip of an iceberg that is the pulse inside the symphony
transforming harmony into discord. (just a thought)