Tuesday, 9 March 2010

Over yonder one was taken by a group of men, possibly solicitors. He's now earning. Beyond the crease in the map - trace your finger with mine! - we come to the people's country. Here the monsters are borders and within them are complexes of social organisation, houses and stores and markets and and grain importers and quarrymen and lumbermills and steamhouses and foundries and parliaments and munitions dumps and pharmacists and motorways and internet providers and design start-ups and local casinos and endless immaculate sandwich emporiums.

But right now we are back to the forest, to the lake and snowstorms, seven degrees below. Off we go into the fog that plunges down into the canyons and rises, smothering our retreat to the hills. Take a vantage point, exchange some currency for food, perhaps buy a room for the night, an apartment for a year, take stock and plan the next move carefully. Mark nothing, leave no trace. What can be read, can be thought.

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