Every town, every image, every word, every belief, every hope. A liquid matter surrounds us: it puts all things into touch, it mixes all. Dumb divers move with heavy steps, looking through their glass. They are mute inhabitants of this land emerged from excess ! Behind the glass too many eyes to remeber – eyes dumb like their own. They got themselves a mask so as to hide from the claws of others thoughts. The glass is misted up by the breaths. First thing to do – he thought – is to be conscious of space, know where something is happening. And even before that, to be conscious of the existence of space. That in this space something is moving, perhaps atomic Madonnas, ready to explode at a glance. He laughed at his own watered down thoughts and at the impotence of those who, like him, looked through the misted glass.
« what are you laughing about – you cretin »
« yeah, what have you got to laugh ?»
He looked around.
« best perhaps if we went ? »
Here we go again. We’ve chucked all we had and are now left with what we could never immagine. Like the pieces of an old record found inside a cardboard box in a dusty loft. Our duty is recomposition, we have no choice. The north ring road leads us only through there, but that is a place that we all know. All the time it’s been inside us and we daily feed its growth. Every day we leave a drop ready to magnify its demographic explosion of stupidity. Like the silence that envelops us : because no one hears the noise when the silence is louder. We are hungry of trees and feed off tree sup. And yet, it is just off that liquid that we should feed. Forgetting the glasses behind which we hide our fears.
« now might be best if we went »