Grasping Chains.

There’s a building site just outside my office window, just like there is outside every office window in London. It’s quite a small one, but there’s a crane on it – a weird, stunted one, as if the equipment had taken up smoking and failed to eat its greens when it was a young piece of industrial machinery.

Aside from being small, this crane is also a mutant, as far I can tell. It appear to exist in order to move around really weirdly shaped lumps of concrete with spikes and girders sticking out of them (fuck knows what they’re building), and instead of having a hook, or anything conventional like that on the end of it’s line, it has a strange nodule from which hang a profusion of chains, like the tendrils of some kind of industrial squid. It’s been kind of weird, sitting here watching move around against the grey-blue twilight sky, the chains whipped back and forth quite sharply, agitiated by the motion of the cradle and the strong breeze. It’s like the damn thing’s alive and clutching for things, it really is.

Christ, I’ve just noticed something. There’s no cab on it. Nowhere for the driver to sit. It’s done away with him, hasn’t it?

Fuck. The machines are taking over. The little men in the yellow jackets down there are just servants to the yellow mutant’s whim, aren’t they? It’s building something strange down there. A think made out of concrete and sharp things. Machine aesthetics are at work outside my window.

(I may be slightly bored at work this afternoon, but seriously, the construction site looks weird in the twilight. I tried to get photos, but the phonecam isn’t up to the job.)

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