This Place.

Imagine that CPR scenario, and just before sentiments begin to think about heartfelt eulogies; the automated external defibrillator returns the normal rhythm, to its…normal pace.

Conceiving such a scenario is notably relevant, as such the epidemic; code name knife crime has left its mark on the doorstep of the local Tesco, with the consequent traffic diversion away from the crime scene; the gridlock standstill, on call, interrogates me on how do I feel about that?

Well, (he sighs) it’s to know this place, spend your entire, emotionally inclined life being moulded, cajoled, and reunited with this place even though the reality of your conscience never really leaves. And it’s the time in this place – naturally with time fashioning the social graphic, from which point-of-view comprehends phenomenon, looking at these… desperately drawn rites of passage it feels as if being here, in a sense of merely just; making up the numbers, touches on a conscience critically fundamental, and essentially unable to divine at all.

What’s happening here is a little bit of hopeful hallucination, recreating the syntax, and measure of prose trying to describe speechless with impeccable shame, to put down here what might be left to say about this place after death. How it feels? The best of my generation are dying and dying again, the abandoned, the beaten, robbed of mind, all bled of brilliance, and anytime gridlock halts the movement of the “regular “ pace, the unassailably fragrant religion of mankind causes me to fall less in love with my own humanity.

The traffic flows, the AED has done its job, the normal rhythm returns to its…normal pace.