When the fluidity, the flexibility of thought – fluid flexible thought – calcifies into belief, it dies. That shimmering white figure flitting between the trees falls to the ground and turns solid and leaden grey, to be dragged away to the city and placed in yet another edifice looming over the benighted hordes scurrying on their pointless pursuits below.
That abstract edifice made of elusive illusions, that blank featureless face relieved only by the odd grimacing gargoyle, spattered with the blood of the bodies hurled from the roof, who fall into the crowds of hunched brown and black figures thronging the narrow streets with a faint wet splat.
In a forgotten and neglected district of that city there sits, crammed between a uniform outfitters and a propaganda outlet, a small cafe. It only ever has a couple of people sitting at its cracked formica tables with their wonky legs, never less, never more, no matter the time of day or night you push through the door to take your place at the counter and nurse your drink for hours, your overcoat on the stool beside you, forlorn.
Your phone rings, earning you a sharp recriminatory glare from the man in a scarf in the corner.
'Where are you?'
'Are you coming home soon?'
The Cafe Nowhere, in a forgotten and neglected district of the city, crammed between a uniform outfitters and a propaganda outlet. The Cafe Nowhere. Where the music sounds like the grinding of gears.
Where the music sounds like the grinding of gears.