Iain Sinclair Quotes
The Poet He Was Escorting Into Wales Was A Horus-headed Dud Of Some Personal Magnetism. The Hair Was Feathered Gell, The Nose Hooked. He Stared At Me And He Didn't. His Eyes Belonged To A Magician; One Bored Into You, Right Through The Lens Into The Depths Of The Vitreous Humor - While The Other Popped And Wobbled In The Style Of Ben Turpin. He Folded In On Himself, Profile Sharp As An Axe. A Labrys. This Man Would Have No Problem Seeing Around A Corner.
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