# not even left with nonthing a nameless feeling approximately akin to we-don't-know-what hey all in a calm collected non confused yet weirdly-ordinary type manner luckily often only lasts five to ten minutes then 'drive' by the cars or 'broken wings' by mr mr kicks starts to play during the long trudge back home from depressing concrete portsmouth in the thin unceasing urine rain of endland silently observing and appreciating slick black chromium reflecting darkness to then realise no trains arrive at this station until five in morning pull those neo-noir pulp rhyme fiction collars up against the cold and damp and start the long existential hike back to your insane workaholic parent's desiccated house-cube-not-a-home // republic of bob