between the fingernails
They are tredding the mud into the city.
There is dirt behind the finger nails. Still some trace of the rushing wind in the hair perhaps.
Then it plumets, down between grey endless grey tunnels and visions of some future unmet.
How does one walk in the city? how does one run up a hill?
How can the pace be kept the same.
His soul sinks into capitalist slumber and pauses to eat a neatly wrapped sandwich and a weak coffee
The souls of the hills, I read the Tain, and I close my eyes on the fast train imagining that this could be the countryside.
we are departing.
we are arriving.
I close my eyes and I see the imprint of corn in the clay and a hands making a new fence down a countrylane.
I am lost in the maze of this city and can no longer say its name.
Urban re:passages 