Through the thick fog of Victorian London, four stovepipe-hatted gentlemen stride purposefully through the night. Barges glide silently down the Thames like so many bloated corpses and the smell of sewerage clings to the back of your throat. The thick-set gentleman peers up at at a gaslight, the reflection on his 'pince-nez' obscuring his gimlet eyes. He thoughtfully twists his impeccably waxed moustache. They walk on, somehow familiar yet somehow.....
BANG. You wake with a start as the CD ends. Running fingers through your mussed hair you wonder, how long was I out? What the hell? Surely some kind of subliminal prestidigitation, these prose poems set to meandering instrumentation. BUT I C
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