Parliament Hill at dusk, is, I assure you, a beautiful thing. The sky a mix of grey and pinkish blood, the grass darkening, no one around beyond the occasional jogger. Paths head towards groves of trees, and the houses and church spires of Highgate rising on the next hill along. Solitary wooden benches, only the sounds of the wind and bird-talk. The air damp and full of twilight, and, on the hill’s crest, all of London spread out underneath, lit up for the evening like a song.
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