25/6

Octobers in Cologne. I think if allowed we would spend the rest of our foolish lives drinking vodka in a theatre, cinema -- front row at an orchestra showing with the brights and the lights and the brass of the sound pulling at our knees. We murmured again and again that church music was the best. That it was the most spectacular, the most radiant lattice of hums and hymns that made us roll our lonely heads forward, weep and sigh and hold our touched souls tightly in with folded arms and folded eyes. I think what we are made up of are millions of stylish lines and stripes, each one meeting at one place or another. And these meeting grounds, these intersections -- those are the points at which the typewriter is spinning, spitting, screaming to finish and write. So if you could stop it all, pin it down, you'd see that. Like string theory. But then we'd cry in relief and attempt to make some sense of all the bollocks, and we can't; we really just can't. As you said, nowhere is just the state of not knowing. Nobody is the manifested mosaic of other places and other people that are never highlighted on a map, quoted in a novel.

Because all we ever wanted was to sit by the water, handing cigars and pretty things to beautiful people. Gorgeous, gorgeous voice. In every light we block our eyes to save them, hold our tongues to save ourselves. Today, though, there are clouds.