And Slowly The River Flows

It was, he said, a matter of corporate vandalism that the building had been left an empty shell, slowly rotting from its insides.  Despicable that such a cultural landmark was left to rack and ruin by the winding river.  His dog, loyally and eagerly, bounded after the ball that he threw into the grassy field.  The park was a welcome break from the terraced housing that surrounded the area.  The gently upwardly sloping centre of the park offered treeless views of the city, of the towers of glass and steel, of the hustle and bustle of capital life, and of the four chimney building that stood vacant and listless by the waters edge.  A theme park they said!  How he laughed a hollow spiteful laugh, and now it is to be flats!  Another chuckle at the wanton piecemeal partition of business deals conducted behind closed doors.

The biggest brick building in Europe represents a suitable metaphor for the degradation of the British state, empty and morally bankrupt.  Did he say this?  I am not sure, but I felt he could have.

At night the water laps gently against the sandy shore, against the slowly rotting wooden wharves, and against the beating heart of the city itself.  The chimneys stand silent and majestic against the dark night sky, the starlight shining through the empty and barren windows.

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