O’ let us unearth the faded memory of trembling gaslight. Hollow and hallowed under the skies’ cathedral yaw.
Tintyped vespers hidden beneath the vintage aftermath of fallow echo and hum. Strain to hear the harassed hustle of thought-stained peacoats under white caps.
The Devil holds no quarter here. Ground control to the missing major? Everything is different now.
Kaleidoscopes keep the faith. Dusk pried sight trapezes across dusty corridors. The tide whispers concrete secrets in quarter note quatrains. In half scrawled allegros.
Shivering. Our eyes unlatch and unfold. Unscripted scenery in the finery of light. Of the imagination. Of the dreamlost and dire.
Neon sunfighters beckon high on midnight. Bearing glass pistols. Five paces. Turn and draw. Paint splashes the sidewalk in Kandinsky test patterns.
It is whispered that the moon favours dreamtwine and whimsy. The quickening pulse forms nascent ventricles of a city awash in the recollection of motion.
And so we are sonorous and silly in the shadow of Ghent. Wakeful. Wondrous and wandering atop the long buried cobbles of olde, olde Granby.
Words and Photography by Jeff Hewitt. Visit his Flickr.