Buildings reflect buildings into each others teal glass prefaces forever. The sky and the River compliment one another on their mute attire and they dress the world in grey. Everything is in unison, asleep and unstirring. A watercolour hung when wet and all the colours have run together.
Dead trees mark the streets; each one equidistant to the next and the last. They are planted with precision but all are leafless, barren ash-grey arms stretching out from cement. Construction sites half finished reveal the skeletal innards of skyscrapers. Scaffolding holds these still birth behemoths as well as toothpicks could bear a boar.
Drones of workers in browns and beige. Overcoats in shop windows on tired mannequins who have stared across the street for years, price tags unchecked.
Escalators to the top of Everest, solidified gum that goes to the top and back down to the bottom. Railway tracks on splintered bridges and train journeys to the bed of the Thames.
Newspaper factories still run on automatic, fully functional. They deliver blank stories to empty houses.