We were dealing in different shades of lunar darkness, now. The grisaille side of the moon. We drank from the same firehose of facts becoming facts-of-life in front of us, performing some variation of higher typing on boxes, in boxes; whole tides of enthusiasm, of sustaining gratitude, dissolving into white foam before our eyes, in what? – minutes? microns? Our landscape was green felt. Fate a wheel. And so we spun the product to the threshold of overwhelm, plumbed pressure points we, ourselves, had already put in place, applied magnets to various orbits controlling their rotation, kept the telemarketers at bay. Naturally this all occurred in New York City, for the same prescient reason Dillinger had robbed banks: because that’s where the money is. Of which, not gonna lie, we were by habit and native circumstance, excessively, ruinously fond.

 

Our subject matter hadn’t changed in what seemed like forever, perhaps never changed, indeed was changeless, was right this minute manifesting the flexible logic and potent negative glamour of the true changeling – anything to get an edge. We trafficked in templates of stark revelation, infinitely elastic, appropriately administered. Choreographed their manner and ceremony within an inch of their lives. We made a fetish of formal procedure, positively Japanese in its evident ardor for rhythmic discipline, for the processional formation of words & names and signs & wonders expanding outward into three dimensions with purpose and restraint.