But Man Is Stuffed With Gods

One : Indication

The young seem to lead the old tales which unfold bind images of mountainsides hollowed out and burrowed with tunnels. Copulations which can only be vaguely inigined from rumours of countries -stereotypes- justifying and nullifying presentiments. Slumping into a chair built for four. Shirt-tails flapping in the invisible wind, here is a gentlemen from the old world. Not quite buttoned up aware. With a lizards watch-and-wait sensibility. Of all that has preceded him. Through white paper tongues flapping in darkness in that same breeze. The district of a brother for his sibling. Telegraph to a wrestling match in an unknown land where a shirt is ripped and a once fellow subject is waiting in the garden. The strength unexpected. The grin the most haunting thing I have ever experienced back to now: to come to now. Moving swiftly along the bus. He is the witness to the cumulation of a lifetimes dreams which will extend another lifetime. Where is this soul. Glimpsed in half-faded badly printed record-sleeve inserts? his desk. In time. Would become my home - the only one I ever had. The only bath-house in the world without a bath. They say that cyanide smells of almonds. But if smell is the most potent aid to memory, where should we be if that poison were the last thing to assail the nostrils? Years later. We were almost kill ourselves by means of inner spirals exerting too strong a half-nelson.