Stamford Hill
A window sanctuary has turned up for habitation. Thirteen typewriters on fleabay at shoreditch has me stroking this addiction still. It drives me further in. They are sitting eighty meters from an old roman road remained arterial without an expression of interest. I hear thoughts marching in circles. Uniform grey in motion. I could stay here another six months at this window alone. There is at least two hundred pages to be plucked out of the air here. Two or three chapters a week. Two thousand words a day. A productive machine of flagellation.