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The A13 is a lucky road; in this early light, splintered, engorged by redness, blood-mess, Turner-melt. An undeviating sun franchise. Liquid gold. Like a drench. A transfusion. The veins stood out in Norton’s shoulder. You could see the nest of them pulsing beneath his cheap jacket. Out here, the missing slabs of the map didn’t matter: everything was missing. Everything was transitional, a series of flats, slatted hoardings that transformed luxury vehicles into obtrusively-breasted young women. Real buildings, ex-industrial, were less convincing than the replicas: deserts, oceans, gas stations in New Mexico.
A post-nuclear clarity. Fault lines radiating out from monster boards onto the camber of the road.

From ‘Walking up Walls’ by Iain Sinclair; written to accompany the recent paintings of Jock McFadyen