We begin at a small patch of grass, grey and faded yellow, full of blue and red sweet wrappers, cigarette ends, woodlice. In front of it a concrete slab lies with asphalt on the opposite side, and more pavement on either side. There is chewing gum on the concrete and oil and tar have sunk deep into the outer part. Madness lives here, commutes through a crack in the concrete. A dead rat floats in the watery gutter and leaves swim the dark road around it. Magpies fight over it, squawk and caw and enjoy themselves.
There are leaves all over the place, because it is autumn and the madness is slowly falling downwards – calm is settling in all things. Animals and concrete slabs alike – humans, rainwater, weeds and rubble will glide into a state of inwardness, slowing, knowing that the cold death of winter approaching will take all energy out of the system. That is... not the concrete buildings full of cracks and the cars leaping rust. Death is already built into them by design, it is a feature.
Right behind the patch of grass, on the public lawn stands a tree. It is a sycamore if you want to know, self-sown in the early nineteen twenties and older than any or anything around it. Through it all that is to know about this place flows.
Madness settling in its grain.
