Walking through the streets, you leave a trail through the landscape (make it stand out, make it matter! Make your own routes, challenge the traditions which make you pass around the tree, under the subway!); passing invisible through a crowd or standing out in the streetlights, the city knows who you are. An oily puddle is your scying bowl, the upturned contents of a park bin your scattered runes. In the city itself, you find echoes of something else, something deeper.
These are your gospels, your guidance in a troubled world; yesterday's newspaper pages three and four, a used bus ticket left on a train, the safety posters (mind the gap) as you travel, graffiti, sweet wrappers and the half-heard words of the people who pass you by. The umbrella is your wand, the briefcase your altar. You worship at your desk and travel home, head bowed and filled with a sense of release.
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