Leaving Reading station now, 30minutes from the big smoke and already the carriage is full. The great white noise of commuters murmuring, their patient upright but weary bodies lining the isles, resigned to their fate, workers contributing to the drone but having tiny voices and little trace of honey. The sun is ready too now, no longer waxing it's rays bounce of the holdings, and as the fields fade away and man's geometry tries desperately to impose order on nature's random miasma, structures reproduce until a mad urban orgy of infrastructure groans and heaves announcing our arrival into London, her open thighs welcoming all and sundry, with the Thames and converging rail networks scarring her flesh like stretch marks.