LAMBETH
I am sitting in William Blake's
chair. But why? Strangely and
singly, people talk at me as if I
care. This British land is running
on, and I am patched in memory
from some other place - to try
and make my system work, make
my land have minor moments. Those
illuminated books seem all I'm tracking.
'Tyger, tyger, burning bright' - this is,
pen in hand, written with a cocktail of
famished ink. The land is dry,
and howling like a dog.
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