TV light bathed him and his sofa in flickery blue; he hadn't moved for hours and was starting to dribble.
The bridge was clear and Banksy led, and we padded over quick as you like into the South. A couple of streets in, and we were on it; "Eyes up, said Banksy.
So it was off to the South and the crumbly slums and the bad-name districts and depots, eating the finest from the skips of giants. It was an easy zigzag route.
The warmth had gone and the cold bit in, but sleep came anyway. The morning was colder still. I dragged myself up and opened the side door to sniff the day. Patterns moved in an early mist, other streets forming and shaping, surely to only melt away if I'd turned to walk them. Two-faced mist, hid me and tricked me.