The buildings seem made out of rain then are, look at the beauty of our raincoats and our disfigurement. Sleepily language or logic and turning out our pockets and eating young flesh. That’s The Method – streets ooze into other silences, other commotions. A child with a moustache bursts into flames. A skateboarding owl takes a tumble. Police cut off their own heads, new heads grow back. Look at the beauty of you in your raincoats and on your wrists scarring. Some days the buildings lie down in the street, stretch out their arms and legs and sleep for days.
Out of rain some giants coalesce, move through streets, bursting into flames and skateboarding. Filthy old clothes and a stench originating in our eyes. That’s The Method – an assemblage of morality (debt) and logic (universality / violence). A child with a moustache wriggles under a raincoat and falls asleep, an owl takes a tumble and swims through a series of miniature nights (empiricism). Some lovers walk by the seashore, a moon blisters an horizon. Whenever I spoke I sounded like someone else was thinking. I bet they did, too.