It is more likely undertake a reluctantly walk, someone holds your hand and you deny the other for the law of retaliation, keeping it clenched in the pocket.
Your eyes are dazed and you hide them behind sunglasses, even if it is dark around you. The light teases you, is because of the neon and the blinking, and of all the passengers eyes which are kicking your attention. They look like to move inside your mind and they cannot fit all. The place is shapeless, so much crowded the outline is not to be seen.
London.
You can barely think what you want to say  that a overhanging thought ends up getting off your mind.
You would stop the speed, shift the scene to fit yourself on a more comfortable stage – close your eyes, there’s always something above the level of the floor- but you cannot. This city is a trap, it is a circle of pleasant pity, loyalty to automation you cannot escape from. It might transform you in what She wants you to be. You dare to afford a scale of values no other cities will offer you.
Well, London, here we are.

Dalston back alley

A police car is passing by. It slows down the sound effect, split in the space of its presence. A police car is passing by, from the wrong side of the street.
The street is silent. Flighty. Swarmed about lights switched off and bodies, laid down on wooden plank to sleep. The street is empty.
The street is free of green, filled with yellow of the lamps. Where am I going, across this made-up enclosure, white tidy fences, where am I going?
London has a queasy taste. Mannerism and pose. It is complex and tragic. It has been pull-over during the night. The street is really silent, sometimes.
Nobody is walking, if someone is walking does he look for anything?

A city is almost the same of any other city.
Get off popular historical sites. Erase unknown languages tunes. Take off of your sight any memories reference.
A city is almost the same of any other relatively large and permanent settlement. It is a place to fit in all the contemporary human skills.  Well, any place to be settled in.
Is it that realistic? Have you ever found a place where everything would pretend to belong to you?
A city is a inner place to be. Everything around you is just the well-known way to reach a place, the time spent together, the privileged level of society, where you live, what you are.
How do you do that?

Olga lives in London

An old fat woman dressing in bright red is holding her shoulders. From the edge of the road her legs are more likely erotic signals, the fences of an old trap, the unseen black lace covered streets where you’ve always dreamt to be.
London is full of people that love each other without even ever met. London is crying upon the time used to be loved.

People make the city’s adornment.
Running the city, occupying the space, managing the society or maybe let the society fit the life into the well made box. Your city, London. Lights and dark, lack of time and time to be spent, your daily way to get to work is the space between what you are and what the city wants you to be.
Sometimes you can stop yourself assisting a building demolition and feel guilty towards the future. While the whole world is moving, just try to realize how much of life you have left before an empty gloomy field would be occupy by the progress. You just keeps going. Forget about the past with some little things to keep your memories up.

Life and death, epidemic revolution of feelings, you open up your eyes in a nursery room and someone has already put you in a dream or a nightmare, the fixed place for you.

London. What you can change about it.
Where the money run. Where you’re a pawn. Where the appearances can be deceptive. Where you can find a small dream to live in, you’ve got a job, a house, some rights, many places to be, fun opportunities success.

Is that the life you want to have?

Gay laid back

You decide to show in public your inner trend. Your unwanted hair on the legs get out from the fishnet tights holes and they’re scratchy. It makes you feel pleasure and unease, it looks like you live forced in a box. It looks like you’re so depressing and contemporary.

Baby Madonna of the buildings

This is a profanation of the city planning. This is a concrete wall made by God.
Look at the heavenly blu soutanes and the inside legs blood, a saint and dirty conception, a evil intention of getting closer to the sky and guess now how many drugs the baby Madonna would take to keep both feet on the ground and not let the life carry herself in lost highways.

This is London.
Tell me a story, tell me another story, because you London are so fake and violent while you’re so tidy.