By Ivor Griffiths
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Carnforth
Sandstone hewn from a cinammon crag, damp grey, cold, coated with smog spat by metal killers freed form city forests. The drips of soaking black soot splatter the sheltering mannequins who stand or sit. Some shuffle. Then clanking metal cracks rhythmically announce with an ear splitting screech. Many mouths open and then thud shut. They swallow damp outside air and happy lonely travellers, here for "The Brief Encounter" tours, drinking the now evaporated atmosphere of steam: covered in synthetic ugliness. Those machines of flesh scrambling on the Hierophant's wheel, smelling the coffee and diesel fumes, they live past the time on the station clock, that runs slow by five.
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