ever so very clumsily, on a bright keyboard with a dirty screen, and I’m not sure that the words will be what the words promise to be and the books that should be so much more, aren’t everything, but sometimes, they nearly are, nearly, but not quite…and is love more than the what love should be? while I make these mindful calculations, a figure of a man and a woman peer at each other across a bright digital sky, asking, mixing, hiding in a colony, a studio, while lurking in a city were the subjects are subjectified to rigorous extremes, captivated by the sound of their own colony against a backdrop of self appointed and approved post-post-modernity… as I, a real silhouette, lie to the queen and all her good horses and all her good men, hoping she will never find me here, in my concrete nirvana, and put any of it back together again, but, as the choppers fly overhead, I fear they will find us, as they have done, again and again. and what of the fight, the big bigger biggest fight. what of the search for love? and how does the fight and the word and the voice find its body in me? is it somewhere amongst the array of the multitudes of zeros and ones that float in my head, it seems so surreal that the seagulls always fly by at night, squawking a pathway over our factory, always at night, keeping me awake, but I think its not the gulls, but the voices of shame, a shame of inhumane humanity, that I fight to not play a part of this game, of which of course I do, hypocritically so, but as my love already said, the greek gods play us perfectly, in their play, which continues to spin in my head.