“That prickly, electric self-consciousness just
doesn’t suit me and nor does a joyless chemical appetite for sweet things.” Ian
McEwan, Sweet Tooth
All night they were shop crawling. Long enough to
check out the stores that comprised the city. Shops spreading citywide. Nine in
total. Or, so they say. What they bought in each of them might not be
purchasable. Might not be translatable in fiscal terms. More sensed in the
traces of the ghost tale they took everywhere they went. No matter which shop
it was.
It is woven into the smell of the night that opened
its wide wings to fold them in an embrace of the shop-all-nite adventure. The
embrace emanating the warmth of midnight blue smoke emerging from the hair of
the ghost tale. The smoke charged with electric sparks radiated from the petals
of the night…the air full of the shadow
tale…
How many nights of shop cruising it takes to realize
that there might be more than just nine, one wonders. How big the city is that
is comprised of more than just nine, one wonders. How to shop in a store beyond
the traces of all the echoes, undetectable by a night-shop compass, unutterable
in the language other than that of an ethereal hour glass, one wonders :
language, not mafotherphunkie letters.
No comments:
Post a Comment