you end up heading to five dismal resorts, if just to hear their names trip off your tongue.

Bognor, Lyme Regis, Weston-Uber-Mare.

you don’t mind seeing Venice – as it’s prone to do – turn into Birmingham.

you’re frankly failing at appraising urban decay. you end up with a toothy grin, an ice-cream cone.

you make a deal with God and single-handedly cause Brexit.

your skin groans under heatwaves and wishes for fall.

cranes fly past and the earth heaves.

all is well.


By Joanna Kozlowska


Header image by Vadim Timoshkin

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