《Movement of the Smoke》 Introduction from the Middle Movement of the Smoke ¡°madness is sanity in a box¡±. It is trying to get out of the box in any way it can. Every time the box tightens in response. The box almost seems crazier than what is inside of it; but what is inside has then created the very box that constricts it. It has created it through disassociation of aggregates over time. The disassociated aggregates re-associate without knowing what they are associating into. This creates the illusion of difference because one has to play catch up. The matter is catching up to its updated self, enforced by physical reaction; and so chemical reaction, which then creates an anticipatory substance; and so latches onto another through the expectation of its source. This is done because certain elements are disassociated in such a way that it connects specifically like this to its core becoming. This means it might not break apart, perse, but rather zooms into spaces that are juxtaposed. The juxtaposition happening due to the collection of aggregates that span the distance of space, which have been divided through a movement in which each connect to each other based not on the distance, but rather the similarity at which each element can exist as it does. The environment is then connected smoothly through centralisation points, which essentially represent the strongest point at which a magnets pull is felt. The central points can be phased through. This occurs metaphorically through thoughts; but how can it be described physically? How can it be that matter is proportionally distributed through a medium that permits a generative force that evolves? This evolution then only being able to exist through such forces, which evolve for it. How would it be that a collection of rocks formulate into a point that can be considered dense, and so acquires gravity? There is a split characterised by air pressure. Which then pushes things together, space condenses into a knot. The knot prevents matter from phasing through; and so increases the pressure of the split, inhibiting its ability to change. This would hypothetically build upon the knot in layers, or transcendent orders; and so makes it solid over time. The matter is prevented because as the split occurs, it might attract that which was not already there at the point of inception, so when the pressure moves inward, the phase at which the alternate particle exists cannot be broken down; the pressure has to bounce off of it again, which pushes it closer to the split material core. The split material then exists with a shadow that enforces leverage because it is constantly trying to phase through itself, yet always bounces back. The shadow itself holds all things together, it cannot be characterised as an original material, although inceptive material can be identified as that which has been collected first. You would be able to analyse the sediment; but eventually the sediment stops existing once broken down enough. This would imply that the space itself splits, and from its periphery, drags aggregates to its centre, which is then designated as the point of least resistance. The resistance acting as a catch, however, because once there, the pressure has to come back again, which is what will stick it all together, the lack of resistance turns into pressure once there is an introduction of associated particles, and the split has extended itself to its maximum degree. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. The split can then also repel from itself and dissipate. This would imply that the magnetic centre becomes too weak to stop the flow of pressure, and so it loses its pressure by acquiring distance, allowing it to form a breakpoint, or another middle, which can be leached in relation to another split. If this does not happen, then we can describe this process as a form of magnetism, in which the pressure acquires its ultimate distance, from the initial split point, acting as a low/high pressure, and so without any other traction, it has to slow and reverse, increasing its speed towards the point of departure. If it collects nothing, then it suspends at its micro point, hitting its other side, which would look like a phase, and so with the acquired energy, it goes out again. If it collects something, then it is brought to the micro point, and causes surface area to occur, as the pressure now bounces off of the aggregate, and not the pressure. It would go out again, influenced by this change of force; and so maybe it brings back something else which then creates more surface area. Over enough time, you would be able to identify a rock.. although at what size can we identify this thing, considering it is then always there, as a result of inconsistent pressure. You could identify the rock through its variety, or through its mechanical collection of the same thing. You would have to identify the rock from a point of comparison; and so the pressure difference would have to change over an extended period of time, collecting an assortment of aggregates that then break down inside of the rock, due to a displacement of aggregates, a chance encounter with relatable material, or an overload, in which the pressure of the rock itself becomes stronger than the pressure than the particles can withstand, and because of variety, some would be forced to implode. Here we can find sludgy rock, or water maybe. Perhaps first starting as lava; and then its particles made lighter, due to vacuum condition separating it from other reactions. And so if the rock is big enough, then the pressure can change; but will not disintegrate the whole rock, which means that change itself changes because of the way the pressure interacts with the new order of crushed material. The whole rock, as a point of identification, becomes a space in which identification permits itself to change. And so a box, or in virtual terms, a sky box. You can get a feeling for how water would create itself here, considering the pressure implode to particles, which creates friction, friction creates heat; heat melts adjacent strata which becomes lava, lava creates caves. The caves stick because the surrounding material is now less affected by the lava than the other rocks, it hardens instead of melts. Which then leaves the lava for many moments to exist as it does. Maybe the lava starts to cool, but by this point the reaction has made it so that some stones, on a micro level, evaporate, or dissipate into the open spaces where lava is not; and because separated by the viscous layer, it has no ability to exist as the particle it once was. It settles upon the lava top, which now cools into sediment. Water now exists, leached from its counterparts, existent in a cave which is the size of a universe. This also happens on a rice grain; but smaller than that are transistors these days¡­ actually the same size. Comparison is then somewhat comparable. Compatible? Who knows¡­ To say your future is comparable, and might never be worked out as you want it because what you want is made up. You have to train yourself to not be sorry; Karma then dictates that sorriness will not be taken unto you. It has to do with the removal of pity, and the hardening of hearts. When everybody sees you as a scourge and interacts with you solely to derive their own interests. That¡¯s me, and I can¡¯t help it apparently being too close then reignites the passionate hatred. Why do we stray so far from the source, as if done so purposefully? Perhaps this ignites curiosity.. Why are we seeing scourge? Repetitive curiosity creates something. A new form of curiosity itself, it seeps in from the rafters. The thing can then be used for different things. This makes it really easy to do some things, really hard to do others. It depends on who you are, how you got there. Sort of like a claim, which is strained over time. Each subject would have to realise its claim, for it to be worked towards; and so whoever works in relation to the claim would be who could compete. The silence is judged based on action. And its action builds up over time. Everyone is then built up from sediment. Each piece somehow interacts, it allows us to do what we do. Each piece can be changed, and is always changing. We just don¡¯t know how yet, we can only make assumptions. This changes the way that the image is looked back upon and so the change can be constant, yet inconsistent because we will never know, it always changes. We now have to identify what changes¡­ this is where infinity can be introduced as abstract. So there is a constant and there is a variable. There are many variables. It is kind of like waking up again, when we can see the variables we can interact with; but then there are variables that we cannot interact with because we don¡¯t know what they are. So then we can¡¯t identify it but we can describe its symptom and so this should eventually come to light as it gets experienced on a quantitative scale. 02_Walking It is midnight; and I am waking up¡­ so early. I can feel it moving inside of me, this unborn child made of rocks. I was split apart only a moment ago. The ecstasy which drives me was slowly ebbed out from within my carcass. Searing heat burnt my eyes into place and the nuclear winter sticks its image upon my visage. I could swear that I have been here before, although apart, I can only remember snippets of the birth. Every day is a gaze for me, and I am walking upon its countertops, perusing for the next thing to consume. My light is absorbed densely by the space around me; but within I am driven by a constant lack. An addiction which permits me to sin in the eyes of any perceiver that I come across - my sin never being fully realised, for it always tends to rip itself apart at the periphery. I am blended by these parts that follow, leading to a disk in the evermore future. It seems inaccessible, I have only realised it quite recently in my travels, and this is not to say that I travel very far, never really having to go anywhere besides that of my backdoor. Back garden ¨C front garden; and all around in a designated precipice, I can walk to its edge and there I stop for a moment, before being thrust back, having witnessed all possibility permitted to me during the day cycles. I go out, to a point; and I am stretched there, prodded for thought in which the inspiration can be laid upon a functional bedrock. From this point, being pulled back in, I commit myself to a trance in which I decipher what it is that I perceive, day in ¨C day out, counted by the shadow of a clock, it calls out to me and strikes me hardly each time it seems as though I miss the moment to exist as I do, questioning. The whole set of events started at the point of questioning. In which I realised questioning; and could see its flow tracked across my brain at a course of light speed, with a few knots here and there to make do for any inconsistencies. I, myself, becoming an inconsistency of late, I look out to this drab circus I¡¯ve been within for however many moons. The circus takes place inside of my mind; and time travels quickly there. In a moment, the journalist is tasked at writing down their apparent fancies and so leached onto the document is a transcription for the rights of its own existence. The existence then stops. I stand inside of this dark room, and look out into the light. There is a lampshade not far off from where I stay, and then repeated again at every integer of this asphalt road that lines the cul de sac, maintaining a spine at which the nervous cars can go back and forth, transporting such aggregate to where it would like to be. At this moment, I do not have a car, so I decide to walk upon its side, which always seems somewhat removed, although the cracks providing something interesting to look at. ¡°Should I walk?¡± I ask myself, out loud ¡°what would be the purpose?¡± at this hour everything seems closed off, as if no one actually exists in this ghost town; and so it can be quite a refreshing feeling, to walk for the sake of it; but I cannot will myself forward. Something is holding me here ¨C a piece of This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. matter that cannot be unstuck, I am forced to try confront its blankness, perhaps making up the answer as I permit myself the time to think about it, for it never really seems like anything is there in the first place. ¡°perhaps it will clear my mind¡± I say as I put on a shabby top, keeping out the wispy cold just enough for one to feel temperate. Inside of this town, there is no melting heat, or hypothermia that one is subject to throughout their time here ¨C and so the town can also be described as temperate, or neutral, and the residents of such a space enact this will succinctly, without much of a hitch ever being made, unless maybe out of earshot, in which the darkness pervades, under somewhat consensual terms ¨C the characters take part in business. And this shady affair is probably what has thrust me into this space of walking for some time now, as it has become a repetitive habit, to watch how nothingness permits such possibility in what can be designated as space. This legal designation of space has had implications on me, for it feels as though we walk through a labyrinth. I am looking at the many corners that I have to cross to get to a point that can be considered as road, and so the same road I have travelled on for some time now, when deciding that the garden space has extended its ruling. How far my garden reaches these days is beyond me; but it becomes confusing, for now we exist in some kind of timeshare ¨C and many of the activities that I would have considered do not happen anymore, it would seem as though business has centralised it elsewhere. This is no matter for me, for I enjoy the quaint airiness of such a space, and have learnt to enjoy this among other things that one can consider to be little, these days. Although, at the back of my mind, stuck in the frame, I do tend to ask myself who this business is, or maybe who these businesses are? A lot of the time I come to self-reflection. This can be a point of frustration, as I walk, because I can only see these spinal corridors and dense light that leads me into forever. As to how any of this got here is beyond me; but it provides me with a moment to think of the potential future, as I start to break down who it is that could be joining me on such a journey. Inside of my mind there are millions of you; but this information needs to be filtered, over time ¨C and so I commit myself to habits which allow for certain voices to be heard just a little bit louder, nudging suggestibility into directions that I would not initially be aware of. And once there I can reinforce it through the segregation of all of the other potential formats. This is what the walking helps with, although I continuously tell myself to do it while asleep, or rather to think alone. The walking itself being a distraction when in these moments, I find that I am required to be around some tool, or extension, in which this mind can will itself to remember through witnessing its own actions repeated. The body as an extension, for walking, then introduces an assortment of character to my pose, as the dark night is quite inspiring at this moment. Although now that I have had enough, I am required to document such a process as walking, and so head back to the point of my own centralisation, from which activity can be derived ¨C I continue to work on a journal entry that never stops. Its progressive growth changes the way I act ¨C the way I exist upon this road network, and yet from what angle, if not perceived? 03_Talk Over extended periods of time, I come to feel drained at the ebb of information that never ends. It troubles me because I cannot decide if any of it means anything anymore, losing sense of the situation quite a while ago, the circles from which I exist have long been left to cobwebs and so my infatuation for the expanse of the disk has taken over ones characters and will to exist. The livelihood from which such a being exists can be hard to come by and so I still exist within a network familiarised to me from my point of inception: birth. Each moment this birth comes to me as if a new experience, and being thrust so far away from its cause has left me erring on the lines of privacy from these dwellers that have forever been in my mind. A protective aura that sometimes diminishes itself at the point in which I desire something else; but always reinvigorated because nothing ever comes; and I ask if that is because I am too used to this to ever change? Although change being constant here, the rebirth cements itself upon new foundations each time I interact with these money lenders. My family then exist marginalised at the point in which they have been realised as a new government, from which I can interact personally, which then leaves abstract the larger mechanics that hold me into place ¨C global governance from which my actions cannot be perceived; and I am left with the symptoms of such an act to that of the private individual. Being one myself, I find it hard to cope with the repetitive drone that calls out from the crevices of a second mind, calling to a consumption that reiterates absorption on its most physical and taxing level. Constantly I am being called to identify myself, as if I hold placement upon this plane; and my identification will always come short, in comparison to what we expect, for at each point of call, there is always another that will take its place, and so forever we are tasked to grow. Besides the prodigal debt that I unwittingly reinforce upon myself, I always look up towards another future in which this work I dedicate myself towards becomes relevant and so proves itself in the face of identification; but alas, I can never find the grounds for which such a thing can be considered relevant; and the majority of the work exists in the air, donated to a god that is not quite there, besides in the ways that it watches through my eyes, extorting the information through a fine sieve, allowing it to travel infinitely upon the wavelengths of time, dissipating into possibility. And here it would be that even the paper cannot be restored, for it will all be burnt away by the time the temperature changes here, perhaps actually making it too hot for anyone to exist anywhere at all. Before that happens, I decide it would be invigorating to put on the same shabby shirt and head to some kind of social den, unaware of where to find anything in its specifics. This would entail more walking, and sometimes it seems like it never ends, looking at these lights, although not turned on at this point, for the sun now shines brightly upon my back as I walk in the other direction. Today I come across a book store, and considering it to be some kind of placement in this world, I stop and look around at what else this place could hold for me. Around the shop there is an assortment of restaurants and little bars from which company is arranged in a manner that describes it as an internal event, I avert my eyes. Although sparking a conversation with the bookkeeper, I feel as though slowly it would be possible to develop relations further, if not for this counter that separates us and our Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. contextual history, preventing a spontaneous interaction, for a more genuine resolve towards money, or interest regarding this or that book that exists on the shelves. None that I am too interested in, for I write books; and reading them has not occurred for some time now, ¡°although there was a point¡± I say ¡°in which I was quite invested in reading as a hobby, and there are many great writers that I have learnt from¡± ¡°oh, maybe if you name one I can give you a recommendation¡± I did not name any; ¡°for the life of me I might have actually forgotten¡± I say, trickling off into another direction, the bookkeeper does not know what to say anymore. I question myself in this moment, wondering what the point of speaking to a person is, when the person exists to direct you based on what it is that they are currently doing, or experiencing. And this might seem interesting; but becomes quite strange to look at it repeated as if I had actually been to this exact book store just the other day, when I spoke to that other guy about my next order, or meal requirement. The conversation is not spontaneous, and this is what I search for, although perhaps not giving it enough time for spontaneity to erupt, I say my good days and then leave, somewhat awestruck that I went in there just to say hello to someone who I did not know. And what was it that attracted me there in the first place, for I could not see their face at the entrance; and so books¡­ and so the easiest point of call ¨C and so this person was uninspiring in their appearance, and I have not much more to say about that besides their neat hat, which they were wearing inside, which inclined me to believe that it was more of an aesthetic touch that it was added. Continuing my search for something to keep me busy this day, I stand at a street corner, for only but a moment, looking out to the pixel perfect nature of my environment. Everything is blurry, it looks like pixels, it is strange that I cannot see the faces of the others opposite me, on the road; but I have not put on lenses which allow me to see, I am somewhat blinded by the reflection of light; and this reflection is bounced in my eye in such a way that it can sometimes give me a headache, how it curves around in there. No matter, this allows me to judge not based on looks at this point, but rather on feeling; and it is directing me this way, again, as I turn to my side and walk straight down the alleyway. It is a large alleyway, big enough for vehicles to pass through, although from only one direction ¨C there is no robot that directs the traffic here, merely the things in their cars which listen to the sign. It says stop, and I am looking at it for a moment. Standing so close to such an object allows me to look down for a brief moment where I touch the faces of those residing in their vehicles, unable to touch or interpret the words, we are left to look at each other for less than that, to which each head turns and continues with whatever we are considering to be important at this moment. I would not know, I am not in the car; but next to me stands a beggar. Next to me, on the opposite side of this alley, I can see them; and we exchange a brief hello, he does not lift his cup to me, rather choosing to look back at the cars and continue with the work he has been invested in ¨C I think it is about time I start to do that myself. And to think a conversation with anyone here could be the introduction for a new set of inspiration, which drives me forth, and this inspiration slowly leaches out of me, for the extension is not here: I cannot write. I have chosen this today for sometimes we enjoy taking in the information, in its entirety, before coming back to a point in which we can put it all together again. Disabled by my inability to buy expensive drinks, I rather buy bread; and head back to the den; and so my socialisation starts again, as I pitter patter off into the pages¡­ 04_Meeting I awoke today with insipid energy. What this energy is prescribed for is beyond me, but I know I must go again.. so I walk in a direction, around the town I am lead through the alleyway. I talk through my actions, the movement of my body calls out to those around me; and we pass by each other in a faint unison, as all others have been called to, yet to a place that is specific to them; and for me my destination is lacklustre at this point. I¡¯ve been meaning to communicate; and to this, it links directly to the call for identification, and so my will to be self-sufficient, away from those who belittle me in the most loving of fashions. There is a space that I have heard about, through someone I met this one time, in a place not so far from here. The town is large; but small enough in its repetition to catch even the unsuspecting audience in strange locations; and so this moment falls upon me while I was searching for a fix to supplant my daily longing for attention. I met them at a dive bar, which sold marijuana; and occasionally I would do this instead of its drinks, for it is far more affordable. Over the days of smoking, stretched across weeks of longing, I had come across this gentleman who seemed interested enough to partake in the spontaneous ceremony of conversation; and this is quite special, for it seemed to be solely for the sake of conversation itself, and so there is more appeal to the generality at which the conversation can be sparked; and the gymnastics involved to orient ourselves from within each others gaze. The relationship is not so prolongingly deep, as it was momentarily personal, for it occurs in passing; but regular passing occurs as we align our sentiment to time and addiction with another. He introduces me to a community centre which deals in the arts; and so over time I have grown acquainted by such a place, and so decide that this is where I will be heading to, today. I have been around this area for a brief amount of time; but long enough still for the regular to notice and provide me with a thumbs up, or a tip of the hat. A lot of the populace around here are not inclined to language like I am, and so sometimes it feels as though there is a barrier that blocks us from interaction; but action also accounts for things, and I enjoy watching the hubbub that occurs around such an area when people consider themselves to be busy ¨C I am not such a person, and so my time there is quaint, and somewhat removed, such as with the observer of a long movie. Today she is standing there, unwittingly, waiting for her next hit, she proceeds to inhale the smoke of a cigarette; and I am compelled to say hello, but I cannot confront her just yet, for I have no reason to, save for the cigarette; but I cannot come to justify myself at the face of it, for I am not so used to these general conversations ¨C and so struck lucky with the gentleman, who approached me. I find it difficult to approach anyone, and especially in this moment, looking at her, for she rings bells in my head that are akin to the red flags of a funeral pyre, calling out for the crowd into the distance. What is it about this woman that calls to me? I think back to my past, remembering all of those that I have interacted with, within my shifting time frame of how I perceive demographic placement. Perhaps I have a profound hate for these things; perhaps I cannot confront it and so this anxiety is what calls to this hatred, or perhaps it is that no one has interacted with me after that point, in If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. which I felt a moment, together, and so never again ¨C it repeats itself in my mind like a machine gun that rips apart dead corpses. I suppose I enjoy looking at corpses, especially when they move. This statement is sardonic, but my mind flashes between her and my deeper interests in the book. The disk that calls out to me from its frame; and I wonder to myself if she has anything to do with it, besides as the image of the last, who destroyed my morality. ¡°I suppose we all have something to do with it¡± I whisper, leaving her for a moment as I look down at the table I am sitting at. She is a few rows down, separated by a window, she sits outside. Across from me are empty tables, no one is in this room at present; but I can hear music in the background, for the band, or one of them, is playing a light jazz, that distracts me from thinking further. I fall into a slight daze, as I choose to listen to the music instead. She walks past me, coming into the room, waving a gesture. I say ¡°good day¡±. My mind rushes for a moment, but it might not have seemed so, for I only looked up; and before I could look down again, she moved into the adjacent room, off to do something again. ¡°She would not be a part of the band¡±, I am thinking to myself; but maybe she enjoys watching them. I get up and make my way into a small hallway with many doors. I follow the sound of the music, taking me to a red lit studio; and I decide not to open the door. ¡°small door, many hallways¡± I did not want the music to stop; and the amount of people that are currently synchronised must be at least five. I turn around and face the exit, I must leave now. It was not the music that inspired me to stop; but rather the amount of eyes that momentarily shift as one proceeds to do anything as of late. The anxiety gets worse as I proceed to think deeper about the book. It calls me away from all contact, forbidding it, in some sense, and so relying heavily on a sensory deprivation to guide me into the annuls of nothingness, I walk. ¡°I don¡¯t understand why I enjoy it so much¡± I say, kicking the rocks lightly as I move around, now lost in a city, I had no real feeling to be inside of any building at all, I was in the midst of a slight claustrophobia. One of the skin, where no open space could save for the compartmentalisation of my mind, and the squiggling of my body, I could almost hear the water flowing. In this, I felt a sense of comfort, and an arbitrary voice that communicates with me, not in words; but in sense, and so I felt it for a moment, and so I believed that I understood. It draws out like a ringing tinnitus; but the ideas are planted like a playwright. I can hear the words through the memory, calling out to me, it requires an image to be repeated; and so it shows me the information of the former. Even without any disturbance, I still find myself distracted at these points, by my breath, by the beating heart, or the blood that flows around this cadaver. It is an obsession that has built itself up now for quite a while; but recently the images are becoming more powerful, and the words are becoming cursed. It can be described as a snap, as in my back, breaking; but not over labour, and moreso over shearing waves that rip everything apart. She only seems to make it worse sometimes, when I am thinking about her; and when I cannot stop thinking about her. Although in this sense, the contrast is what strikes me, and why it is that I exist here, upon its opposing order. It would seem as though she, herself, was this wave; and so holding everything together, she guides me through magnetic light; but I rip it apart; I am designed to rip it apart ¨C she guides me to destroy herself, it would seem. How can she not guide me, considering this shearing force is now everywhere and cannot be unseen? ¡°it is reserved for me¡± I say selfishly, believing that whoever I said good day to would have no understanding of what it is that I have seen, what I am currently envisioning. 05_What It Is What it is that I am seeing, in this moment, are plans. Given to me by this tinnitus, it has been loaded into me over the extended period of my life; but now it has to be emphasised. It was only when I started to write it out that I got any sense of continuity; and this continuity required a point from which it can be realised ¨C my whole life I did not see it. She was there, and I cannot remember how long it has been since then; and I must have been so young, but this moment is when my passion grew its strongest. The frame in which my life was structured in fantasy ¨C somewhat ironically, for now I am looking up at this dusty roadway, wondering if this is any more realistic? Realistic in the sense that my expectation is subverted ¨C and things can only go for so long, which is representative of my relationship with her ¨C and something always has to happen, such is why it ended as it did ¨C and I cannot forget, which is why I am seeing it in you again, and so now realistically this is how the relationship exists, again. Although the feeling is mechanical, which boils down to into nymphomaniac desires, and so this can also be reduced to instinct. And I do not mean it, but I cannot help it ¨C and looking at her has now spurred me into its embrace, although the dead body still stands as I think about the darkness this other side holds. And so the nymphomaniac becomes a murderer, as I look around me, at these dusty roadways.. ¡°how many people¡±, I ask myself ¡°how long?¡± The voice asks how it can be made more effective, for really the tribulation of ones past does not seem to matter anymore ¨C only as a tool to project it into predictable futures. This infernal murderer is derived from my loneliness, my accusatory demeanour ¨C and my outburst has no target. I am not alone anymore, and my defendant lies besides me, now locked into my left or right brain. She cannot get out, her wailing turns to this plan, to save herself ¨C from what, I am not sure anymore¡­ he tends to show himself infrequently, and this makes it so that he is unpredictable; and now untrustworthy ¨C it is revealed in this world, and so it is a symptom; and I have been breaking it down. You will notice how I have been stuck here, walking upon this street, for what seems to be my whole life now ¨C and so the figure is illusive because I can never find its source, only its residue. Its residue is what plants me here, a ghost, looking for some kind of closure, unable to move on until I have found it; and it lies within the external conversation that passes by as I go about looking for it. The process has made me feel liberated, in a sense ¨C now that I can derive my own sense of The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. satisfaction, although always parallel to this anonymised figure. And so this land-locked enclosure, form which my desires trickle; and so I have not noticed a mountain ¨C I have not seen the waterfall. The plan comes across like an experiment ¨C how many people can you get to do the same thing? The question I ask is if the repeatable stuff makes us whole, makes us one, as a species locked into a connection of relativism. The physics of transportation, which is what allows us to live as we do. Although my greed makes it so that I never have enough, always comparing to a figure that I have not seen, and can only imagine at this point ¨C they would have to be able to do anything. How could one thing do it all? I think about my priorities ¨C and what they mean to me, considering that time only allows for some, and these images have to correlate, or else the continuity would dissipate, and so you would not have been there, to see this¡­ voice. And so my priority is to keep myself held up, upon these stilts that guide me; and I cannot say what choices I could have made besides this ¨C and so what holds me up now becomes warped. She flashes into my mind for a moment; I phase through an assortment of ideas ¨C and so it all burns up as I am planted there, at the end of it all. What would I have wanted, if I were you? The robot turns green, as I stand still by its side, the cars like meteors, upon a fine trajectory of silk, suggested through the walled street ¨C I¡¯ve always wondered what this would look like in space. I think about the claustrophobia of such a place, in which the openness is what kills you upon contact, a sort of inescapability, unless you have come prepared; and so whoever comes prepared would have to have access to all of its preparation down here. It would be a major communal effort ¨C but quite selfish in that someone would have the idea, and so only someone would be able to see its complete image ¨C and all of the others are then thrust into its repetitive workload. Why anyone would want to work, could be because they don¡¯t know ¨C we cannot see the scope. The scope at this point, still holds me kicking rocks; but now I am a step closer to my residence; and a step closer to being back with these extensions that allow me to continue this journalism ¨C and so what more I have seen, being anything else this thing can tell me. I enjoy the wind outside, the feeling of it on my skin ¨C I think about this, heading back to that room, where I am locked to work, and made to seem like its enjoyable. The writing never ends. It restarts, however, as I open up a new page. 06_Business The future thinker always looks back. The past occurs there instantaneously. How are the moments summarised? John has been thinking about this for a while now; but whether he is thinking about it clearly, is not altogether there. He has been getting omens, telling him good from bad ¨C and he can''t tell if it''s true, as if there is some kind of game, or trial he is unaware of. Aware enough to notice its smell, he continues thinking his words onto the page, scratched into wood. He barks like a dog as of late, mentioning collaborative ventures to the gentleman at the smoke shop. He mentions his book briefly, but lacking a certain charm, the gentleman is interested in other topics today, as he swoons over the whereabouts and whose who in the town, although a little disassociated for me, questioning from which town he is sourcing his reference, for I have never heard of this before, save for the light jazz strummed anonymously in the private studio. Although my mind does not wander to international acclaim these days, I have been somewhat sucked dry of my desire to be noticed, too much. The pervading buzzing makes sure of that, as I proceed to slowly fade away again, thinking of tension we feel between conversation. The time it takes for me here, at the smoke shop, is not less than a rats catch in a trap, over its life. It happens very quickly, although I have been alive for some time now, and unlike the rat, I will continue living out of this moment, in which the majority of the day is spent, scratching. Although, he does spend some time in my study, or rather the studio, when he is around, for together things are required to have energy, certain amounts of it make things feel normal; and so the study is reserved for thoughts alone, and writing generally takes this sideline too; although the music we can put together passes time and relates us through verse, seeing the gentleman, more as a sort of buddy, or fellow now, we travel together occasionally; and this is to say that I now go out at a moments breath, moving through the days, as if searching for a signal out there, and so it has become a regular movement, and it leads to the community centre time and time again, where my mind festers ¨C and the band plays, and she occasionally appears; and we all tend to repeat, waiting for something different. And so it gets easier as conversation becomes more common, and so the band becomes familiar, looking around the room at the different recording devices, and stock instruments that are available, some artists having brought their own. My eyes are stuck on the drum set, which doesn¡¯t seem to move too often. I have found reasons as to why my smoking never stops, feeling this strange impulsion has driven me to more equal grounds with her, somewhat mysterious, although never really known, I am looking at her through the fa?ade of the creative, and I feel as though she does this a lot, searching for something fantastical ¨C more real than real, and I wonder how real it can actually get, although A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. questioning if I¡¯d ever want to be there ¨C perhaps more suitably watching through a screen. I get quite jealous of him, however, because he seems to be more fluent, in their interaction; and so when he is around I tend to focus on other things, although this fellow is good to hang around ¨C he introduces me to everybody. Perhaps something we can learn, but it would seem as though he is a natural, as if he has met them all before. He tells me that the centre is like a hub; and artists are moving through quite often, seeing many new faces all of the time ¨C ¡°perhaps some move too fast¡± he says, looking through me at the time. ¡°I find that the burnout kills¡± she says, as if moving somewhere, fast, ¡°I¡¯m not sure if my breaks are longer than the work¡± cooling off. I say nothing, looking forward at the burning cigarette. I don¡¯t have a watch; but I can feel this ticking, as if there were a speed limit. ¡°I wonder what would happen if you break the box¡± I say, abstractly. As if caught off guard, she looks back ¡°burnout?¡± At this point, I¡¯m not thinking about burnout perse, but she has a point, in that the box permits burnout by working too hard; but rather I¡¯m concerned about how she has a box there in the first place.. wondering what calls us to such a thing¡­ ¡°if I were to consider myself an artist, I¡¯m not sure when I¡¯d be able to claim my burnout, considering everyday might feel like a holiday.¡± ¡°it doesn¡¯t feel like a holiday to me¡± she says, brooding. I wonder why.. although he cuts me off. ¡°yeah I¡¯d enjoy the pay¡± ¡°if there is any¡± she says ¡°I mean, its far in between, sometimes I question my establishment, I haven¡¯t done anything remarkable¡±. She resides around the community centre, although the community here seems a little saturated. I think to myself, and my financial stilts, although best not to pry, I rather continue smoking, looking at the fine lines blowing in the wind. I¡¯ve always wanted to host an event; it feels as though they happen naturally sometimes. Although at the community centre, it would take some time for anyone to really get into anything on a large scale; and I always blame myself for this, subverting it to larger government interests. The ringing in my head makes me feel overwhelmed for a moment as I think of the scale of such a centre, working with all of its others over space. But I cannot seem to find any others; and arrived at this one on a whim, luckily enough ¨C and so how long would it take before we met more people like us? I¡¯m not sure if I¡¯d ever want to, brooding myself, now. I think of the waste that we can construe from a project such as this, still thinking about the greater industrial mechanism that has led me here out of longing. Searching for something that is not there, the ringing reminds me of another time, in which I can identify a sort of simplicity, although naively, for I have never been there; and so maybe I am taking this current predicament for granted, for we never know the labours of who brought us here; and most probably are unaware of their names, save for their livelihood. I take a moment to look closer at the faces of those around me, looking for despair; but perhaps it is just me at this point, wrinkling my head I look down again, and put my cigarette out on the floor. 07_That Fellow was Right 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C not doing too much. The shop itself has a dank sort of smell ¨C 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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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.