Nomads have failed where the light has risen. They bring ceilings and trapdoors, spinning past the ramparts of born breathers and Beethovenian causes. These last thoughts die out of fright, because the light cannot support such travelless wishes, the kind that get spray-painted on your grandparents’ old station-wagons before even your first trip to the sea. The last trip to the last house on the outer turnpikes of your memory have made a selling here; real-estate is huge in the land of dreams. Paper cannot account for it.
Fast times beat about the razing delirium finished before the times of cuted rainbows used as symbols of assumed freedom that has, it is thought, to be bought rather than lived right now. The sellers leave their theatres to witness the spectacle of destruction and the water coming in and liberating all in spite of themselves and how many bright trinkets they might want for their grandchildren.
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