That fellow was right, there are many new faces that appear here at a given time, I have been


    watching out of the side of my eye for a little while now. And the ones that come and go, seem to


    never have any real idea as to what they are doing, or perhaps some have a pretty good idea, briefly


    using the space as they have arranged prior. Considering I do not do much here, besides lurk, I have


    taken to doing it in the comfort of company, in which myself and this fellow have been on a sort of


    adventure, as of late. Occasionally taking in the nearest straggler, we hustle ourselves into


    conversations, learning about the experiences of others in the area, and as to their whereabouts in


    similar locations, or dens.


    I do think to myself that at some point, we should probably look for a place with a bit more diversity,


    and so a stray away from the arts and culture department, although at this point, it really does seem


    like the carnival has projected outside of my frame of reference, looking at the aspiring dancers and


    musicians that lay claim to this spot, although not claiming it perse, rather engraining themselves


    with a sort of memory, stating that they exist as they do.


    A lot of people tend to search for such a thing, relating myself to such a predicament, wondering if it


    is true, what I say to myself. And yet still, I feel unrelated to such a crowd, because as of late, I have


    not been considering myself an artist, or anything of the cultural sort; and rather take on the


    pseudonym of analysis, in which I am scanning my environment, looking out for inconsistencies


    within my gaze of understanding. Recently it has been off the charts, these measurements, in which


    the unrest that I can gather seems to be oozing out of each participant, due to the clutches of reality


    locking the aspirational to an endless trudge, looking for their next financial hit.


    It never seems to arrive, these investors. And you would think the occasion becomes more frequent,


    considering the large amount of potential stock they could acquire through the marketing to the


    next victim. Although each one a chance to become a perpetrator, for the nature of investment


    would imply that at some point, somebody would have to make it into a larger hemisphere, and so


    pull the rest of the community up with them; although perhaps some travelling too fast to see the


    potential for such a feat, we are all generally running around like headless chicken, the surveying eye


    looking elsewhere. And for the life of me, I have been thinking of all of the ways in which this could


    be made to seem impossible, the venture of art and capitalism; and not truly impossible, but rather


    impossible for me, or us here inside of our designated city, where we follow the spine until we have


    to come back somewhere.


    The investors already having travelled out of the city with fast acting airplanes, they lay claim to their


    investments elsewhere; and we might never see it come to fruition.


    I feel this emanating, although I wonder if the artist would be able to describe it – I look around at all


    of the people. There are not too many in my general vicinity at this point, and my friend, the


    gentleman is out of earshot, looking for something to squander at the nearest smoke shop. I decided


    not to join him at this moment, rather taking in the moment to look at how finicky this point is.


    The fragility of a moment, in which everyone in the vicinity is held by these stilts I cannot describe to


    any – it feels wrong of me to confront something that might not be there.


    Although feeling it myself, I decide it is always necessary to bark at those who I feel most


    comfortable around. With the gent not around, I keep it to myself – and wonder what she is doing


    today, fading off into a daydream; but I call myself back to the moment, thinking of the confusion


    that is underlying this publicly funded cultural agenda.


    In my private time, I start to wonder about how such instruments and land have been acquired over


    time; and who would be interested enough to leave such things for those who are to come.


    And I wonder why those who then arrive treat the equipment as they do, somewhat professionally,


    which is called for in the space.


    The space itself is illusive, for at the face of it, each character has a powerful footing from which they


    can present themselves; but perhaps likened to myself, each one could exist as the husk that repeats


    memory, looking to eat at the scraps of what is left behind.


    And at this moment, what is left behind is this silent art. This empty space which is filled through


    travelling; and each one that passes through leaves this mark.


    Although what has provided the land for such a mark, is beyond me; and I generally use the word


    government, although also privatised in its interest from gambling houses, or hotel services –


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    probably looking to add an NGO to their list of business in order to abate tax.


    It would really only have to be the building, and its water that gets funded by such an entity; and so


    its hides through these grants; and these grants can hide us because there are so many that occur


    simultaneously here, most probably to move money through the enterprise, if we were to consider it


    privatised, once again.


    The people around the area keep it up, paying for electricity as they go, using it for what they must,


    in order to quench their desire for identification. The red light studio being the most energy


    consuming place, in which the producer sits throughout the day and monitors those who want to


    record, or perhaps even recording something for themselves. As to where all of this sound goes,


    becoming anonymous as it gets pushed into the public eye, being portrayed from the perspective of


    those who have claimed to making it, sharing their work with work partners, or friends or family,


    such as the beginnings of life insurance, in which all customers are welcome, it seems the sound is


    produced in a variety of directions, and it shoots into all of them, creating a colloquial sound that can


    then be recognised as this or that, differentiated from those others who do not seem to exist yet.


    Although I have now heard whispers already, of a bigger machine; and acclaimed artists who use


    spaces in areas parallel to my existence, just out of the frame, I feel as though something still


    happens whether I am there to see it or not; but feeling real at this point, I let my fantasies sit, for


    this is as far as I have come, receiving no credible claim to wealth or fame, I find that it dampens my


    spirits, calling to the tinnitus again, which seeks to subvert the ideal creative flow in favour of its


    critical other, which seeks to blame the community for my shortcoming, if they can even be


    described as such. For it seems like it is only me who calls to this defamation, the prosecutor lying in


    the distance of my mind, unable to tell me of these failures, perhaps purposefully loaded so that I


    repeat myself in this circle until I have passed my ripening age.


    This is what repels me from the act of doing, and so I tell myself that there can be no age from which


    a body falters, save for the stereotype that guides it; and so there must be something, that puts me


    into my place; and so guides me through heavy suggestion, telling me what I must do.


    It is because I do not know what to do, which has led to me to such a location. Easily swayed by the


    creative endeavours of others, I am trying to see what makes it so that we are actually interested in


    such a substrate, as to being together, or collaborating. Some great cause that brings all confused


    minds together and uses their voice to overpower this thing that judges, although perhaps judging


    itself, the machine seems to sway uncontrollably. I cannot control it, it is out of grasp – I can only


    identify it; and so I watch idly, unable to make a noise.


    “I’m going for another smoke” says the gentleman


    ‘bro, you just went” I say in a jest


    Quite seriously he says back: “yeah, but there is nothing to do around here”


    I tend to agree with him, but my mind also races at the thought – I do not think I can see just how


    much stuff can actually be done at this moment, it feels blocked from my gaze, I decide to join him


    this time.


    The outside seems somewhat fresh, although the area around here is a little bit smoky, it seems to


    exist on somewhat of a lower class, with some of the roads being tilted, and the buildings losing


    paint. Many people just sit around, looking about – not doing too much.


    The shop itself has a dank sort of smell – and it does not get me high, rather making me heave


    slightly as I stand in the line, thinking about all of the stuff I could get and so forcing myself to look


    forward, for sometimes money can be used in other ways – and I would not like to carry so much in


    such a public place, I hold it as a sort of act, when I am around others, to be somewhat courteous to


    what I buy in their presence, for I know that the power of financial leverage can be overwhelming,


    especially when you are in its privileged position.


    Although not entirely privileged at the point in which I condemn myself to a sort of gout, while the


    others around me are laden with the jealousy that I can give myself gout in the first place.


    The middle class is a fine line between the poor nobility; and my ranking upon its class sometimes


    leaves me ostracised from my counterparts, although still satisfying to smoke in the company of the


    gentleman – he exists on another order, still confidently exuding some kind of social power,


    detracting the eyes from my own blisters to his, which now seem like war scars.