Last February Paul told me he was talking to Miquita in the street when someone landed on the pavement next to them. This was from 20 years ago and now I'm alarmed that I can say yeah I was there, man, and that the same sleep I rub out of my eyes is the same as it was then, only I was rubbing that sleep gone midday and only dimly aware of the budding depression of it.
Paul said first she was on the balcony and, up high with the people she had sought she must have concluded there was nothing there.
All time is rendered so I can glibly announce: this is the fat of our times, there is nothing there and the chase is actually us chasing ourselves away from the conclusion.
It's why WEN LAMBO must be so satisfying, all the young men in early want of a driver's manual in pdf form for an impossible trinket they can wrap round a tree like a hug.
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