Streets emptied of its humans. Crawling furniture, old broken and weeping milks of various blue. A church with the windows smashed out. Cathedral black for dirty, tower-tall and humming ancient techno hosted a funeral for pigs head and the bonfire of assorted meats. At the bottom of a steep hill we turned right, left, right, left into a maze of emptied bars, abandoned demolition sites and numberless doors marked by unknown symbols and splattered filth. Perhaps 11.30am, unsure as to where.
We sat in the garden a Monday afternoon. The grass hadn’t been mown for a month or so. The Pie focused wholly on a little yellow dandelion flower a minute beautiful, before crushing it in his fat caramel hand. In the evening we watched videos of people falling over in the street and maiming themselves on various gymnastic apparatus. Everybody laughed. We would drive to Liverpool the next morning.