Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and recoil of traffic. The stock-still
brick facade of an old church, against which the waves of people lurch
and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. Eddies of light in
the windows of chemists' shops, with their blue, gold, purple jars,
darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors, murmurings
out of high windows, whirring of machine belts, blurring of horses and
motors. A quick spin and shudder of brakes on an electric car, and the
jar of a church-bell knocking against the metal blue of the sky. I am a
piece of the town, a bit of blown dust, thrust along with the crowd.
Proud to feel the pavement under me, reeling with feet. Feet tripping,
skipping, lagging, dragging, plodding doggedly, or springing up and
advancing on firm elastic insteps. A boy is selling papers, I smell them
clean and new from the press. They are fresh like the air, and pungent
as tulips and narcissus.
The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues of gold blind the
shop-windows, putting out their contents in a flood of flame.