Yesterday I learned that dead wood bleeds. It is surprisingly thin in substance, much like human blood. And it looks like syrup, clear ochre in colour, with a smell reminiscent of the idea of forests. Because forests don't really smell anything like the insides of dead trees, or the birthplaces of their limbs to be more precise. Dead tree sweats too. But this I learned as a child, years ago.
I have been discovering secret places of London. Like the St Dunstans in the East; a little oasis sprouting out from the ruins of a church. Eerie, beautiful. I also learned about the history of a site in Whitechapel I have been curious about for weeks now. Trinity Green, it turns out, was built as an almshouse by a particularly kind-hearted sea captain for fellow sailors in the 1600s. I find it hard to fathom how old things can be, it is mind boggling.
