Dig a shallow grave

Over the moors, take me to the moors, dig a shallow grave, and you'll lay me down.

The smiths

This afternoon was spent wandering the boundaries of Yorkshire and Lancashire, tripping up over the moors from Outlane following the road winding downwards from the Pennines coming down stopping just short of Oldham. I have a crazy ambition to walk the moors from Lancashire to Yorkshire, from Manchester to Huddersfield.

The sands or shifting

I pass over the hamlet of Deptford on high electric rails, casting out over old mill spaces now converted to a new plush estate of city village flats. The Creek is high, and with it it brings a tide of dirt and anger up from the shores of the Thames, in a short while thousands of dumped firearms and other such incriminating articles swirl their way to my doorstep. My gut reaction is to lock the doors and windows and wait for this high tide to ebb back towards Kent, alternating between burying my head beneath soft comforts or looking out from my balcony at grey figures moving from shadow to shadow, a shifting unpleasantness in the dusk light, waiting and loathing.

Next time I will talk more extensively the world of films, i just wanted an opening, get my eye in as it were.