We spent a couple of nights in an all-night laundromat somewhere east of Marble Arch. We had run out of money during that phase of our London experience. At least we had shelter, and found some measure of companionship with the assortment of characters doing laundry during the wee hours.
There was the drunken gentleman, who never quite got around to reciting Oscar Wilde's, "The Ballad of Reading Gaol." He went on for hours preparing to quote the poem, but never uttered a single word.
a cobweb catches
the glow of fluorescents