Today London is a mess of wet. Of rain splattered buildings, of umbrellas broken in the wind, of shoes and socks that are not resistant to the penetrating dampness of the day’s moisture. It is a day of wet, of rain of course, but also of wetness of the soul, of the mind. It is damp beyond compare now, when one leaves his thoughts to the clouds to pick for him. They are muddled and tied up into balls of puffiness that don’t allow anything to seep out of them except for the dampness and melancholy feelings of the damp, cold, springtime London day.