A chance encounter at a service station boiled my blood and left my brittle body shaking
It's like I've traveled back in time, lager louts and violent crime, a crimson cross to mark the spot, the god forsaken.
I see a fist connecting with a face
I see appropriation, desecration, gangs of mindless racist reprobates
I need to feel like there's something that's worth saving in this place
But all I see is hate.
How we struggle to find meaning in the ‘facts'
A dialogue so porous that the language drips and trickles through the gaps
Each word uttered loses pertinence and tact
Muted by the noise of the attack.