Decoys

Each Corridor is Haunted

[An improvisation on words found at Sit Down Man, You're A Bloody Tragedy, Entschwindet und Vergeht, and Holden Richards.]

± They casually exploited many thousands by maintaining a persistent and sublime smell other than a vast beach that has many thousands of rotting fish. These people were supposed to have an intensity of focus on fairly obsessive ways to deliberately avoid rehearsals for demolition. Being attired with technique, they were supposed to provide us with another view from places like suburbia from which to view streets from a balcony exclusive to the professional, the soloist, and the beautiful. It was a format where a man could have survived and could almost be called happy with that sublime beauty after walking along places where the search for a new home records the next high. These people shopped on their phones and outstandingly badly planned exclusive flats like a noble who thrills at a new palace resonant with their shuffling. They were in favour of a self-abnegating submission as it was directed into environments of identity-formation.

± I, like them, will someday get used to it, but came, perhaps, to another view that was as windy: that there were better ways. Yes, that's right: the muffled answer is ever approaching the conclusion that you never get a desert in the ocean. They had to explain, for instance, how to actually define one's relation to living in uninhabited buildings rotting in silence as they managed to quietly stun with an astounding acoustic that was, more than anything else, a tone surrounding many thousands of people cooped up and hemmed in together by a space more blank than aesthetically integrated.

± And isn't this montage the embodiment of both the young and elderly response to a market they played for? Everything will reverberate with its pretext, as each corridor is haunted by an unbelievably cold absence, wasted by repugnant ideology descended from centuries of fucking that institutions have slowly patterned in attempts that have endured, loitered and lingered through hurricanes and droughts.

Strangers Have a Thousand Causes

[An improvisation on words found at The Lumber Room, and In Absentia Out.]

± I’ve spent years genuinely dedicated to learning my job as the influential spokesman for night-time walks in the city. I often charge out towards the river, for putting everything into perspective is my place in life, and strangers almost impossible to convince have intuitively expected to have nothing false salvaged from these interventions.
± The other evening, at a particularly remote spot, I noticed the rapidly approaching footsteps of a man whose taut features had a fire within. He was looking for something in the river. I suppose he enjoyed the atmosphere, the strange urban landscape, a Tarkovskian scene of suffering, as the water was bubbling up salvaged what would have been eventually destroyed. He was so flattered by the attention that his bare hands demanded a cigarette, however well established and well-meaning a type he decided to depict himself as. This had given his appearance that of elegant character. However, he was feverish, as smoking and looking across the river construes an appearance that contradicts pretenses; it was as if he were an occasional neurotic unfortunate enough to be enveloped in desperate actions. He was impatient, bothered by a noble purpose and its inertia of thought that contradicts its very nature, horrified at everything that might seem heavy with this ugliness.
± He talked of a sacrifice almost impossible to explain. ‘I shouldn't complain,’ he said ‘but I feel horribly disconnected from gazing into the compromises that this life is overwhelmed by, and have decided to sacrifice everything to convince the compromises that this life has almost no importance. I am trying to maintain my brain, which has finally induced irrevocable insanity. Disappearance from reason comes from looking at bullshit of the highest quality. While engaged in the unintelligible worship of appalling and trivial gibberish, a persona is highly charged, compelled even, towards even more cherished adoration of absolute nonsense. However, maybe it is only I who can appreciate this: that the country has been transplanted with me to the madhouse.’ He grabbed me with his gaze: ‘To maintain this logic has been the abandonment of my self-preservation. My non-existence has polluted my daily works with futility.’
± Strangers have a thousand causes ever ready with humour with which to convince the friendly and helpful public of absolute negation, so I said ‘The distressed man carrying fire is engaged in an activity that cannot be especially helpful to himself if he mistakenly construes himself as a smallness almost as to not exist. Perhaps it doesn’t matter that daily works go largely unread. Perhaps death is great. Perhaps there is no purpose to this life.’
± There was a stunned look on his face. His taut features softened, along with his suicidal desire to resist. His gaze became becalmed. He thanked me, but by imminently verging on a stare that was the awkward by-product of urgency and mournfulness for moving and aesthetic pleasure in ordinary, human things. Perhaps principally out of an awkward thought horribly disconnected from logic, I turned back in a time-slowing manner, only to have belatedly noticed that his disappearance had incarnated.