Peter Hammill Fogwalking
Everything clumsy slow-motion, I look for the source. Buildings loom up like icebergs on collision course. I don't want to go in there, I just want to be alone, unpick the stitches of time in London in the no-go zone. I've been kicking around like a dog, lost myself in the blank mass of fog, it's some kind of service. All humanity's fall-out is there, slumped in doorways and mouthing cold air - I have heard this. Fogwalking, fogwalking. Since the curfew the streets are half-dead, all the good folk asleep in their beds, it's so easy to go off the rails when the fog spores are breeding inside by head. Fogwalking: there's a presence that I sense Fogwalking: the neck muscles tense Fogwalking: it's right here inside me, try to find a defense - oh, no. Fogwalking through the wreckage, fogwalking through the worm-eaten Night Apple, fogwalking through what used to be Whitechapel.
