Whole
suburbs awake to kafkas scuttling away from the light. Open the scrumptious
pages, their bedsit, and they scrabble rapidly towards no-words-land. They are
overgrown full-stops, made monstrous on a menu of German thought. But to us a
fright, slight in flight, self-serving gourmets of decay. February is a good
month for landscape architecture. We are capabilitybrowns of our own postage
stamp, kick over picturesque boulders to find carparks of them, driving in all
directions. Their livery is so 2018, metallic black, impersonal. How easily we
crush them under heel: them all feeler, us no feeling at all. Full-stop.
Period.
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