This Foundation Stone

I'm reading Sinclair's Lights Out for the Territory, on loan from AHB. He writes in soundbites, shorthand. Writes of the scurf of abandoned tags and slogans, lateral moraines deposited in sidestreets by the glacial movements of the capital's polity, each graffito a letter in the great unending unreadable name of London, written in its native tongue. The city's language a hydra of tongues, a mouthful of tongues and limestone teeth, a great mute body skinned with a sea of such mouths, silently scrawling over the brickwork with their felt-tipped tongues. A freewheeling fragmentary prose, a pandemic infectious cant cultured in London's feral book trade...

This photo, however, was taken in Bristol.