This issue's poet and photographer explored the industrial past of the lace market...
I get therapy in Lace Market where the buildings are so tall it makes the sky seem further away I get therapy Sunday mornings so I’m nearly always hungover overthinking the fact of getting therapy somewhere that makes me feel so small Something loud and obnoxious in my headphones to keep me going Something ghostly about the quiet and the half-light Walking past closed-up bars that from the outside don’t look like they fit in these massive buildings like bars round here are kids dressed in their parents clothes or something I wait outside in the rain wait for my therapist to let me into a building built to store delicate things In therapy we talk about personal chaos and the chaos of other people Ode to cacophony of chip paper being blown about outside Lace Market Fish Bar Ode to every good idea being shot down in meetings in the offices these buildings have become All over the city you can find these very wide windows like letterboxes put there to get as much sunlight as possible throughout the day for lace workers I think all the time about looking out on everything from one of those windows I always want to see everything at once but you never can can you
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