It's dusk in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox. It bites my wrist but there is only a dull ache. I feel that it wants to say sorry but can't. I die.
I'm sat out the front of a cafe in Hatton Garden. I've just eaten a brie and
bacon panini, and I'm rolling a cigarette. Feeling very London. An old man
comes up to me and asks for a roll-up. I oblige.