To the Reticulated Cities of Uneasiness:


My thoughts are your thoughts. Hence, they empty out into a synesthetic envelope that is concealed in a concentric dream of the emperor—which is to say, they are literally made of sunlight and smoke.


The proud plenitude of “reality” is nothing but foliage, voluptuous translations and fragments of wicker and lace that float around the condensed quadrangular moats of the agoras. Gathered on promenades, patrons of the well-placed image encounter, among the old ruts and channels, the social “truth” that power is not a question one traditionally “solves,” for to speak its real name only releases its winnings. Time to go downtown and spring from the flat ground of the thought on which you are standing. In a word, to invent oneself. To retreat so as to advance deep into that urban space that we have always known is inhabited by all but never seen.


I am talking about a metaphysics that offers an alternate window against clarity, through which, nonetheless, one can see the orange tints of a cucumber’s paradox, which is as green and fluid as the grass at the end of May.


A standard sheet of paper knows an indifferent residence: it is always marked by not being money. But you still meet me here in this inanimate emptiness by this strange branch that presides over us like a kind of vegetable dome. Its blossoms, of course, are to be minced to shreds by the central machines.


It seems we are really like mediums who have inhaled an interstitial sickness on the daily trolley from Hiroshima to Los Angeles. Where there is no speech that communicates, we shut our eyes, but as always, we keep our ears open.


With sincerity, I sign off—

 

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