The pavement beneath my feet hums, low enough to be ignored, but just loud enough to make my bones tremble.

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You start to realise something is wrong as the elevator lights blink and pop. There’s always something wrong when the lights are malfunctioning – you’ve read enough horror stories to know that.

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Whilst I wandered, my feet misty and disconnected from my lofty organ, through the fog-licked stone sidewalks of this metropolis at this unhallowed hour, swathed in the somber wool of my traveling coat, which was steeped in the musk of factories and dampened by the exhalations of the Thames, I felt a most peculiar disquiet, slithering about through my person in the most unpleasant of ways.

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前几天看了2009 RDJ + Jude Law版大侦探福尔摩斯，今天来写个（very biased的）影评

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Fern’s notebook was spread out in front of him, its pages white and pristine. It was urging him to write something, but at the same time, it seemed so daunting a task that he dared not move his pen.

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It looked so different at night.

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I.

It’s hard to write

When your emotions haven’t gone down yet.

(Wordsworth was right)

It’s hard to organize words

When feelings are crawling all over the place

Rolling to dust on the floor

Besmirching my brain attic

That I had just barely organized the day before.

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A shiver of wind smokes through the door.

I do my best to frown and then not to frown.

I sit up and then slouch down again.

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