"...Jesus answered him, “Before Philip called you, when you were under the fig tree, I saw you.”" John 1v48
if you ever knew the claustrophobic concourse of the old Kings Cross, you will find here its opposite.
of the structure.
a departure terminal made like a tree to leave, left here is the warp and weft of a woven weave, engineers quilting against the age of steam, organically. here their steel braiding mechanically still finds the joy to bring light to fall on a thousand tiny people staring up from the plughole as time's spiral tendrils trickle down to the concourse.
of the gap between.
in crystallised tension as Riley's Kiss grazing, like a buxom body bodying forth in brickish lust yearning: in it's a new generation's turn to wait in line. and the Brits below busying, in fusty soppy-stern muddling, preppy tweed dot dash darting. there's mother and son scolding. whither the ticket he lost in? careless youth.
of the shadows.
all lonely wraiths lost in the largesse largeness of our digital glade, a breathing room with room to inhale, Potter-heads oblivious to the honeycomb sky casting a spiderman's web netting of king's criss cross hatching of fibonacci shadows spiralling, of tropical fronds yawning, within this baroquing growth grown as a generatively generated shelter and shade.