World cuppery permeates the humid undercoat, the streets strangely quiet, the pubs overflow out onto the street as if the giant plasma screens inside were pushing them out, like predators (or raptors captive). Cars without roofs gently push through the bar crowds in Exmouth market stereos laying down a layer of bass notes along the street that linger for hours as they cruise the narrow landscape. The patrons of the restaurants are scattered outside their favorites, perched on folding chairs at Italian tables with machined tops like bottle tops, the fragrance of burning wood precedes two priests with swirling cassocks and a black wide brimmed circular hat, shadows in ernest conversation entering a church.
