Holborn Library

Words fly around like grapeshot. 

The downstairs of holborn library's full of men reading rags, vagrants and semi-vagrants and vagabonds rolling tobacco and a group of 3 italian men representing ages 50, 60 and 70 all unable to keep quiet, talking about lire and the old boys hunchback is almost level with his blue beret. The young black lad with headphones and wooly hats speaks some italian too. a real motley crew, unplaceable to any social study. probably encyclopaedic types who study newspapers for obscure numbers. the youngest has the worst eyesight, holding the paper to his nose. practically sniffing the words out. the old boy's registered - his doled out pension in one of thiose little plastic sack & tuck packet. 

Across the road, through the big panes and trees , lies BAR. Chamber and a historic square to boot with wigs dripping out o' ev'ry tiny led window.  a lawyer who helped through the HMS liner of his pocket, straining moral juice through those fine mental linens into aiding mutineering sailors being dumped into gallows, and remaining undisclosed. a good man, not a bad one. not totally against all necessary evils, but one to use his weight to stop a ghastly unnecessary one. He pulled some strings upwards, enough to favour the apathetic representatives too lazy to continue. 

The people rush like rats into meaningless professions behind illuminating fronts, from granite to alabaster, red formica to green leather. 

                                         

"it's like sharing a bed with a goat"