She felt an indigence in the air. The procession of victims followed. The wind animates dust. My needs prove elusive as any notion. The sun beats down the eastern wall. A fetid rubbery smell that reminds us of some crime. You are uncertain as a prince among the machines. This effort is shameful. As if our words should be prophylactics against whatever beats wet in the hollow ground. The gods are arranged in unlikely tiers. They could not bear our desuetude. The morass calls for chance operations. They made decisions for us, the dead. You liked it on the hill, but then your eyes fell out, returning to dirt.
I want us to be deadlocked as continents. The skin quietly repeated, a motif. It abstracts. They employ a revisionary concept unlike memory. Still there is a furtive line trailing into distance, history. That is their loss. She thought fondly of the physical demands imposed by the gallery. It lies off the square, where the difficult monuments are.
The city is built upon a peninsula, at the Western tip. It will be an insurgent base during the withdrawal. The facts persist as problems. Navigating between obelisks, I kept thinking “This sky or that flying thing is impossible”.
She said that it was a state of things we have assembled. In the end we can accommodate but only by pre-empting our fate. The theocrats were superseded but retained the incidents of proprietorship over dogs and small islands. But what’s new in that? I think of the other solar spectacles: cirrus, swan, the place where bronzes are laid.
A replica pierces this femur, a series that can have no first term. Nothing is complete or itself. This is it, again, or a soaking in fire we call by other names.