Out. To the seaside. On a modernist pilgrimage. To shoot the delightful bottle alley. Before it is closed down. By health and safety. In their hi-viz waistcoats. I wonder how many babies have been concieved down here. How much piss. How much blood. Has run down these gutters. How much life. How much love. How many arguments. How many first kisses. How many last moments. How much sunshine. This place is a beauty. For all it’s entropy. This place is a beauty.