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The blackened monastery lay on top of the hill like a wounded panther. Lighting struck and set it ablaze. The people of the town took it as a sign that they had offended god. Those who could, left their homes, those who were too poor to leave, stayed in the rotting houses that wound down from the peak. Every year those who stayed grew older and poorer, many died. The dying town on the hill became a spectacle for tourists. People came to take pictures of the decay. They liked to look at the old fashioned people with their old fashioned homes, as they went about their drudgery. They were unaware of the beliefs that festered in the hearts of those who remained.  God had forsaken them; he had torched their monastery, the sanctuary where they had been married, where their children had been christened, where they said their prayers for their dead.  I thought it was abandoned. It looked dead. Many of the houses had been torched. There was no one about. I took my camera. I wante...
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  “Tailor of timeless thread Sow me an overcoat fit for the gods From horned rams wool To blunt the teeth of winter Dye it black as the Great White’s eyes So I can slip past the dead Line it with Red Widow’s silk To keep the blood from cooling Make the pockets deep So I can fill them with gold.”   04/02/2011. - Hastings , England.-                 The wind blew in through my back, into my heart, and out through my ribs. It froze my blood, flesh and bones. I had nothing left. My money had splintered into loose change. The post-apocalyptic nightmare called me to come and rest with the ghosts. And yet, there was an immense feeling of clarity at having nothing, and owning nothing, except the rags on my back. My lack of capital was burning round my mind. But as the cold ripped into my spine it numbed my despair. What I needed was warmth.       ...

SMOKE

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  I shoved a piece of peanut butter toast into my mouth and left to catch the tube. It was a greasy London morning. I had to interview the butcher. He had information on a suspect. The prison was brick built it smelt of pain and sickness.                                      They took me to the meeting room. Bluestone had killed for money and then for pleasure. The firms didn’t want him anymore. He was too wild to be of any use. He knew the language of blood and butchery better than he knew English.             He held himself as if he were free. The walls of the prison had no effect on him. He could not be broken. The guards feared him. They didn’t like it when he was out of his reinforced solitary cell.                      ...