There is still hope for hermits, someone claimed. I descended down Ladbroke Grove and listened to some audiobook or other, English words coagulated mumbling into thick traffic murmur. Whoever told me to write here. I served as a link between the moon and the planet, and it's perhaps an accepted cosmos, that, it's never far away, just a phonecall, never. It was never clear to me why a writer would consent to partake of the schemes and intrigues of our current geological epoch. There are vast areas of land we are prepared to sacrifice, but I do not live on them. I like walking along the urban canal seeing the ducklings mature into fresh meat, pink emulsions and nostrils full of kosher. There is a colour of field that protrudes into the ultraviolet, and it's called lavender. It was also never clear to me why a graduate would join a corporation, why an oyster would open itself to an entity. Just living here is to partake in the extended landscape of violent sprawling flesh that melts ruins into tracks left by other walkers. There was no through-way between the newly opened but closed waterpark and the publicly owned footpath along the canal. It had legally shrunk to five inches. One would have had to swim along slippery glass panes, nestle hard against the algae-infested undersides of monumental silica blocks. We live in prismatic resplendence and oxygen fervour, but we die in rusted white. Those who design these ultraviolet structures, too, eat jerk chicken on weekends. It probably tastes a bit better but not excessively so.