Vessels are docked beneath the mudflats.
Ships that sought Empire
over half the globe
hold their cargo like a poem
in Esperanto.
When the mud of this world is washed away,
the ships will deliver all the presents
you threw out
by mistake.

Apart from the general tragedy of the floods, that have left the population in such a desperate state, is the double tragedy that it has taken such a disaster to manifest the hidden truth of the situation. The people who find themselves trapped physically by the putrid waters have always been trapped by the economic and social circumstances of the city and of the country.

Having been away for a week in in Suffolk, returning yesterday was something like waking from a dream. The (relative) silence of the countryside feels like a moment of intoxication from which I have recovered. It’s easy when you’re away to forget all the life in London that carries on with complete indifference to you.

At what point does a collection of books become infinite?
How many before the collection becomes so unspeakably vast that to imagine reading it becomes a distant contemplation, a journey to the moon?
Even a small set of shelves is a challenge - they represent a warehouse of knowledge, a banquet that the greediest of readers couldn’t conptemplate. Think of the nausea…