Calcium coated paper, a mottled grey patina beneath, a warm seething nostalgia at the core, granules of cobblestones weave a net of streets, damp from the hordes of weeping feet, here the lightning darkens the sky, the raining street cries for silence, falling steps echo in the humid air, night swallows the shadows playing from each passing streetlamp, the empty eyes of those brushing past, though scarcely audible, only by muting every page, can the stories be heard..
Extract from The Prism Walls by Marc Atkins