A city circles itself only to become a shape so fantastic it makes a trap for the trap that has been specially constructed for non-socially controlled somnambulists. (Controlling the out of control. Socially controlled somnambulism being one pillar of the system).
These glitches in the system are worked upon day into day, night having been abolished (see previous texts).
We took a trip to the seaside. Don’t like vinegar on chips.
Yet the system also runs upon its glitches. Erase memory and you erase rebellion, yet erase memory and you erase the sadness which makes for never going mad enough.
Suppose today’s pearl grey sky is a blurred script, says the fifth creature. An ancient calligraphy. No more masters, the text says. The text says there is such a thing as night. Somewhere. Where they can’t see. And there is such a thing as daytime somewhere where their gaze slips to nowhere. Then your cities should be places of assemblage, music, poetry, theatre, debate. Your countryside, your wild places, should be where you and the animals exchange languages and signs and thoughts.
Back to you, S. ‘It’s getting chilly,” you say. A great cloud as if dribbling ripe and ruddy peach juice suffuses the horizon. Some skinheads stomp Leicester Square. 1986?
forth how Maggie saved
the universe. Our
flat is being sold. Back
to the classifieds.
Zrrrr gröif varloom lamplighter.
To dream. From a record shop Bach’s 6th Brandenburg Concerto is playing, we step inside to listen.