Everything clumsy slow-motion,  I look for the source.  Buildings loom up like icebergs  on collision course.  I don't want to go in there,  I just want to be alone,  unpick the stitches of time  in London  in the no-go zone.  I've been kicking around like a dog,  lost myself in the blank mass of fog,  it's some kind of service.  All humanity's fall-out is there,  slumped in doorways  and mouthing cold air -  I have heard this.  Fogwalking, fogwalking.  Since the curfew  the streets are half-dead,  all the good folk asleep in their beds,  it's so easy to go off the rails  when the fog spores  are breeding inside by head.  Fogwalking: there's a presence that I sense  Fogwalking: the neck muscles tense  Fogwalking: it's right here inside me,  try to find a defense - oh, no.  Fogwalking through the wreckage,  fogwalking through the worm-eaten  Night Apple,  fogwalking through what used to be  Whitechapel.