Dwarfed by looming glass spires, some topped with huge yellow cranes which looked tiny from their great height. Sun glinted off of their innumerable, impenetrable panes. One looked as if its glass face were reflecting enormous white chains. Binding it to what?
Frowned upon by squat, ageing sandstone buildings. One said "1914 Great War Veteran's Club 1919" - are there any of them left?
Wondering at the way suits dominated the streets. Every second man seemed to be of the business kind.
Listening to Charles Bukowski reading from his own...stuff, on a backdrop of soft guitar and barely-there drums. Pausing it to listen to a busker at a train station, with his mellow voice.
Some of the window displays are really quite fascinating. Their mannequins make me feel so tiny.
Someone had written Who is John Galt? on the sidewalks in pink chalk, every block. I can't answer.
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