“While Hook waits he looks out of the one remaining see-thru window. Cars skate across flat-pack blocks, the infidel sun presses the dirty air flat. Trees in the artificial park by the fake canal opposite Da Vinci’s wither and writhe and the leaves are browning from sunlight rather than season – the vacant sun refuses to vacate the sky. So many people at heights, in storeys, piled high and crammed in like Tetrus blocks, the empty sky shimmering; dreams pop up and are shot down like target ducks. St George’s flags flutter from balconies, red crosshairs and dirty whites: Come On England.”
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