The mist trails turgidly across the Thames; a sweeping swirl of smog-filled shadow.
The current, flickers in the city lights, and the hum of distant traffic bridges the gap between the shores like the deviant throb of a faulty generator.
Standing in the dark of a deserted street; stray scraps of newsprint scuttle round my shoes. Homeless headlines scream the shock of the nothing new: The Rich, The Bitch, The Pitch, The Snitch; the devious, demented dealers at the dark heart of the snake-pit city.
The noir beneath the neon.