Scream at the City
“Not sleeping is so stressful; Work and health go out the window.”

Years after leaving, the world seemed different. Miserable and restless. The world they knew was more predictable but signs of it wandering were always there. The Caspian Sea now served as a counter point to the paving slabs and grey sky while the Caspian rim, a mixture of oil refineries and caviar farms, found its way into North London through the pages of a magazine.

This bit of the city had evolved into a comedy of people that didn’t really get along, all teetering on the brink of one massive argument. Gangs of Kurdish boys would chase young Turks up and down Stroud Green Road, hurling abuse along with every plastic chair they could find only to be chased the other way by the Turkish boys waving what garden furniture remained—a garden table or beaten umbrella—as some poor sod cradled the base of the umbrella stand, weighed down by half a gallon of tap water.