It's beginning to get cold here. This morning, the sky was the mottled, rippled grey of beaten tin, and as I walked through the blasted post industrial warehouses, all smashed glass and rusting razor wire, I was acutely aware of the holes in my shoes, the torn-out sides of my socks. A drifter with one hand didn't bother to ask for change, merely pulled his tattered scraps closer and gazed on. Reptile, played over the insulating safety of earbuds, never quite seemed to fit so well as today, the jittery, jarring tempo seeming to perfectly match the feverish pulse of the waking city. We are all so impure.