7/2/07

Marcel Proust got ill and stayed in bed all day writing – if he lived on the Kelvin Estate in Sheffield would he have done the same? If he did he would have missed the sun going down, spitting fury light on it’s idiot façade – the concrete crannies and featureless glazing almost cowering in the glare – the placement so close to town is a miracle of modern fool’s planning: row upon row of sorry details. And yet something about it is glorious, some sorry beauty in the twilight. A Kelvin? Isn’t that a method of measuring temperature? Hell, high waste.