Walking back from Exmouth Market yesterday with a 6pound beef stew curry in hand shouldering a light rain, we passed a trashed organ on the side, by Clerkenwell Green. Its rain-splashed keys, grimy with car exhaust sat restless like a child in a waiting room. Its electronic boards hung like eyeballs from sockets pulled by fox mouthed scavengers, and the pedal hung limp like a deck bound beaten fish. An empty paper cup spewed grassy moss and a cigarette butt pouted from the roof like a decapitated tree stump. I smeared a finger along it’s music and didn’t hear a sound.
