...a deathly serenade...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AA
Leonara Carrington’s Down Below. That night she
had not arrived back and was not answering her
phone, which just rang and rang and rang. I did in
fact decide to distract myself. I left the squat and
walked towards Hackney, smoking a cigarette. I
took a side street so as not to walk into Dalston
and be confronted with these little Hipsters
prancing around. I had bought a bottle of
Teachers whiskey and had two or three cigarettes
left. The street was empty, notably so: nobody was
around, just cars lining the streets and the odd
light switch on. I had a hooded sweatshirt on and
I put the hood over my head. I rummaged around,
there was debris from outside a scaffolded house
and I saw a brick, as if theatre lights lit its form I
noticed this particular brownish pick brick. A new
looking brick for all those types, I supposed. I
picked it up, just as I had done before and heaved
it into the front of the nearest car window. But
this time I didn’t stop, I lit the front seat of the car
and just watched the seat start to burn for about a
minute, and then I walked off down the road.
Back away from Dalston with the sound of the
shattering of glass still fresh in my mind. That
week I had done, in total four more similar deeds.
Another brick into a car window, a large rock
thrown into an Art Gallery in Shoreditch, setting a
large bin alight which I pushed into the middle of
a road in Bethnal Green and I also threw a rock
into an apartment window on Queensbridge Road
—All done in the dead of the night. By the end of
the week I felt as if I purged myself from any type
of light and decided to entrench myself in a
205