Through the London fogs I stagger, lost in a drunken haze of misfortune and bad decisions. Some call it life, but I prefer bad luck.
Time is lost in this place, this grey cityscape of unaccountable moments. No bat nor bird fly here, both confused, as are all. Like limbo, my London remains neutral waiting for someone to tip the scales. Someone like me.
This fogged forever is a place for chance encounters, for the daring and brave, the bad. It awaits a King, someone to grasp the mantle of leadership and wipe away the smear of grease that covers it. My London begs for an empire to be built around it. I can taste the saline licking of its lips.
I sneer at a lantern and kick at the cobbles. This city is mine, it just doesn’t know it yet. Not quite yet. But it will. It will.