The only redeeming factor of the near hell experience that is the tube in London is the occasional poems and artworks scattered around the underground tunnels. (So not easy to take a picture above a girl without her thinking I am completely infatuated in love with her...) Much like this one:Loving the Rituals
Loving the rituals that keep men close,
Nature created means for friends apart:
pen, paper, ink, the alphabet,
signs for the distant and disconsolate heart
Palladas (4th Century)
And I guess that really explained why I write here into the void. As I feel somewhat isolated (as we all do in big cities that swallow us whole), I suppose my disconsolate heart yearn to relate to something, to express the dark corners of our minds. And in this case it is to everyone, but really no one at all.
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