P.M.

I guess, my dear traveller, that being sat in my ship will not mean anything to you, not anything different to those worlds that you used to come across to in the cities of desire we disembarked into, in the underground of conscience, in the aftermath of this outlandish will of us all, of this hunger for our novel voyage.

Sat here as I am I doubt I am not indeed moving in the helix paths concurrent to the Greek spiral, willing to lose the centripetal force that only augments this fever within. I asked in the cavern today about our destiny, but it appears that our fate is written with Solomon letters, out of the brisk turn of pages of our lives book. If only these letters came in golden envelopes, if only they conveyed the black forces we disbelief in, we could then stand up and disperse this water onto the grain rivers whose bread will continue to poise us.

As I sat here, my dear traveller, I can only think of the letters that were not written in the letters that I did not read, of mirroring the semblance of scavengers and object dealers alike, of judicious oracle respondents, of you and me, of this slow imitation of life.

Flooded blood

Dear Tony,

Calmed down from the storm I found that conundrum where the true path has varied implications, and there I dwelled on how I should start, if I ever started, on how I should ever finish; it came then alive the reminiscence of those accomplices and those common frauds, of those will to not get rid of that burning desire to escape from this common cage…

I came back from embedding within my spirit not a Protos bottle of wine but seven pints of the whole palette of breweries this island offers to its inhabitants, partly to thank them for comprehension, partly to bribe them to not tell anyone of the joyful times the prisoners enjoy within its borders.

I came back and committed the daily suicide of checking this so-called mail account, which sometimes really accounts something, but that others, the majority, is only giving evidence of the imposed desire of being accountable, just finite to become grid-coordinated... in that nightmare I found shelter within your words and realised that the tide was low enough to find within them the sincerity and the straightforwardness that only comes without order, from the very inside...

I should say that I keep alive missing what I do not not miss and not missing what I do not miss, if I ever was not conscious of missing anything at all, beyond that I struggle to see the difference within the blue scales contained in the darkness intensities of grey, but even then, doing my best, concealing threats of reaching too short, tightening myself in a tears-and-blood cloth, I cannot do otherwise but to ensure that my thoughts are within the purity and clarity of your voice stream.

Take care of yourself and your entropy,

AyO