Where Compassion is a yellow balloon hanging from the ceiling...

Tips for our studies says the tips jar on the counter of the crepe stall. Two Polish girls work busily behind the counter, creating crepes. “I wonder why you need to study to make crepes?” muses a boy of about eleven. “Oh, but they make things other than crepes...” his friend muses back.

Teenagers walk around wearing hoodies emblazened with ‘Lord of the Kings’, and the mystery of the universe conveniently packaged into four bullet points. Low slung leather belts spell out ‘sackclothanashes’ in studs.

There is a lot of flirting. And a lot of GHD straightening.

There are real smiles, and fake smiles; real tears, and fake tears.

Right and wrong, in and out, good and bad are sliced apart again and again with cool precision, until they’ve been split differently so many times they crumble into a million pieces like shattered ice.

If you lose something, the chances are that it will be handed into lost property.

Some people are healed, others are broken.

The toilet graffiti talks about love, but the cleaners still have to work late to scrub it off.

“I pray 4 every1 I no luv u xx all xx”

Visions and dreams.

In a place where Compassion is a yellow balloon hanging from the ceiling...