Nunhead is my favourite Cemetery, nowhere else is the hopeless vanity of man more apparent. Gravestones march into the undergrowth to be swaddled in the reaching arms of bracken, frosts crack them in twain like mere digestive biscuits and lichen deletes their names.


Pow! take that human conception of permanence!


Blauw! Undergrowth do thy work.


See the lashing rain turns the faces of angels into monsters! Oh when will you unclasp your consciousness from the limiting illusion of subjectivity oh man?

Graveyard Rating 9/10


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