Demanding but unforgettable, this story of survival on a London estate will have you rooting for the 'youngers' whose lives are blighted by hatred and poverty. Cutting across generations and races, it places its faint hope in the power of love.
I clock the sun peeking over East Block now, dragging shadows across Square below. Reminding me of where it is I'm at, breathing in the air from the scattered trees and the line of low smog bringing in the morning. People talk about Bronx. Like in Brooklyn and them American estates, them projects, they talk about them spots like it's got some kind of road beauty. Even though they places of pain. Just cause bare rappers were born there, ennet, managing to turn their basic living into loot. But there's a few hours when these Ends can rival that kind of romance too. The morning for starters. When bodies wake up, start the day and sort the grind. Then it's them deepest nights when the lights sketch out the scene and the sounds of cars ripping wet streets and all you hear is buses gassing up and sirens fire. Rest of the day is bleak as fuck-tho, standard.