Metempsychosis

Broadness of daylight, shimmering Thames gloriously between appetites of architectural labyrinths speckled by touristy enthusiasm: Arabesque Spanish, Italian, Japanese, and all. London is atavistic someone said once. It is not the need sir but the necessity. You need 113 steps to walk across the bridge. This gulfnesslessness that engulfs all. The dominions and their transcontinental cuisines. Croissants £ 1.29 , chalk-written in a hurry.Polish hands perhaps? Money is what speaks in time and space between the silence of lives. Matter over mind? Metempsychosis: the eternal periodic grumble of the central line, like those Americans who shop along the oxford street ; an air of post-modern fetishisms. Love thy neighbour. But charge for your love, there is no free meal in the world. In Camden a smiling teen offered you cannabis, one of a kind he said. Pure and orgasmic. I want to buy oranges. But they are not the only fruit. Hindus knew it all, the christians applied it and Romans lived it.A mirthless laughter consumes two faces. I walked with friends , friends of friends, lovers, lovers of lovers, lovers of friends, friends of lovers here. Forgiven, Forgotten.Touch and go; our souls: form of forms, our platonic loves. Mystery of sex and birth. Tattoos and innuendos. Introductions and bereavements. So and thus. We and us.