>>24805363
I unironically like this version better
London. End of term. The Chancellor’s somewhere being all official in Lincoln’s Inn Hall, but honestly the city feels like it needs therapy. November’s out here serving full seasonal depression energy. Streets are so muddy it’s giving “Noah’s Ark just clocked out.” Would not even blink if a dinosaur walked past Starbucks on Holborn.
The air? Straight mourning-core. Smoke’s hanging around like a toxic ex, raining black mist, soot flakes floating down like emo snow. Dogs are just wet sadness. Horses look like they regret every life choice. Everyone’s fighting for umbrella space and losing—just slipping, glaring, silently dying inside. Pavement’s got centuries of trauma layered in grime.
Fog literally everywhere. River? Fog. Marshes? Fog. Probably fog in your lungs by now. The city looks like it got eaten by a vape cloud that ghosted you after two texts. Old dudes wheezing by fires, sailors puffing on pipes, random kids freezing on deck—it’s a group project in suffering. People on bridges just staring down like they’re expecting enlightenment but only getting more fog.
Streetlights barely pushing through the gloom like “don’t talk to me before 10 a.m.” Shops light up early because the gas lamps are just as tired as everyone else. The air’s raw, the streets disgusting, and Temple Bar’s out here being the crusty gatekeeper of bureaucratic hell. Somewhere in there the Lord High Chancellor’s holding court like nothing’s wrong, fully blending in with the misery.
It’s giving apocalypse aesthetic. If hell had weather, this would be the forecast.
