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London Is An Endless Skirmish Between Angles And Emptiness.

There Is No Knowing Beyond That Membrane, The Meniscus Of Death. What Can Be Seen From Here Is Distorted, Refracted. All We Can Know Are Those Untrustworthy Glimpses--that And Rumour. The Prattle. The Dead Gossip: It Is The Reverberation Of That Gossip Against The Surface Tension Of Death That The Better Mediums Hear. It Is Like Listening To Whispered Secrets Through A Toilet Door. It Is A Crude And Muffled Susurrus.

People Have Wanted To Narrate Since First We Banged Rocks Together & Wondered About Fire. There’ll Be Tellings As Long As There Are Any Of Us Here, Until The Stars Disappear One By One Like Turned-out Lights.

My Parents Were Hippies, And The Story Is That They Went Through A Dictionary Looking For A Beautiful Word To Name Me. They Nearly Called Me Banyan, But Flipped A Few Pages On And Reached "china," Thankfully. The Other Reason They Liked It Is That "china" Is Cockney Rhyming Slang For "mate." People Say "my Old China," Meaning "my Old Mate," Because "china Plate" Rhymes With "mate.

...where's The Skill In Being A Hero If You Were Always Destined To Do It?