London
Preferential squattors' rights. No ginger rats or rappers.
Dinner for nine on 85p. Very tired makers leafing through a book underneath the table searching for new songs to sing tomorrow.
Making the home an office when someone has a rod stuck up their bum. Come down here Harriet and hang out. Face it.
Nothing new to report back upon besides the rays slicing through at great rates to coincide with Autumn, stormed rivulets bobbling about four story photosynthesising oxygenators novelly arrayed.
The streets are a socratic speakeasy.