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?
Man in
pub holds
forth how Maggie saved
the universe. Our
sub-let council
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.
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