Reversible
London, afternoon, quickly. The warm dark body lies on the virus dark road. The virus dark road loads up with warm dark bodies, a surprised group, eyes obscure dull. Raised voices excoriate the ear. Arms broaden, fingers point. Retail laborers in bookie-red Shirts, ill defined Primark pants. Lager bellied men wear following paper caps, the weak smell of seared chicken. There are hoods, topped covers, strong puffed coats. There are thin dark covers, scarred and pointed shoes, red ties, 12 PM coats. A couple of in the group lift youngsters, five or six years of age, best case scenario, held close, faces protected, little heads drove profound into grown-up necks. Fresh introductions dart like raindrops, join the mass. Staccato blue lights, the murmur of prattle. They pool, flood, flood advances, nearly filling the roundabout stage in which the body rests, spilling.