Pretty much all of the houses in Dagenham are the same; same size, same layout, same scheme. Dusty mud brown brickwork with the occasional splash of pebble stone grey. The houses span a long and tedious labyrinth, a dense and unchanging landscape that never quite leads to home. And it’s impossible to tell in which direction you are travelling as the fetid chimney smoke obscures the stars. Naturally once you enter it is near on impossible to leave and so, upon discovering this, they made it so that no roads will lead you here. Like grains of sand that once were rocks, gradually eroded by the wind. In perpetual motion causing buried picnics and sore and blistered feet. Never knowing of the ocean or of the beach in which they live. And without knowing, never question that another way exists.

Just beyond its walls; the eternally distant sound of relief, like throwing Propaganda into the eye of the abyss.