A Walk in the Village Jon Wood I make my way up the High St. past the mixed Victorian facades arranged by whim and fortune. Around the corner of Church Street the buggies begin to proliferate. Clear voices of the confident classes quicken the languid Sunday morning air: chastising, cajoling, passing on their eloquence to their smaller selves beneath crumbling cornices dead pediments, distant scrolls and many moulds of the gone. Everywhere the stage-set shops are pinned to neglected masonry faces under peeled and cracked laminated boards the naked new timber struts push against an old grave of corroding cast iron drains brittle and strong, nestled in the vintage grime of a deep brick groove. A pistol of fear hangs in the hollows. The girl in the film shop smiles like she can see the best of me through my fissured shell. I demand Art House to impress and she hands me The Turin Horse life's unutterable darkness.
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