leaning out the window, of flaky wood painted white, with the superfluity of a cigarette that these tired lungs of mine keep getting punished with, and the chunkyness of earphones and the fluid bluesy folk of daniel belanger. there are bricks that continue up high, higher and higher and finally they stop and there is blue and moving clouds...
parce que jsuis libre comme l'air libre de faire demi tours
jvais continuer, le vent souleve la terre...
and i breathe suddenly and there is openness and the wind changes and i am mary poppins and im ready to go. go from this sepulchre of a house soaked in the shadow of ugly batiments and the staleness of memories of other lives that have floated past here. and sometimes i think i hear reverberations in the walls, from the stained green wallpaper and in the dust of books, of past liveliness. or maybe it comes from me.
on the floor outside there is the carcass of a urinal leaning against an empty frame, a broker mirror which reflects a fragment of cloud, and sacks full of bricks and dust. and this brings to mind mon chèr magritte.

excitement over the discovery of a much saught for flaubert amongst 1970s travel guides.

dum di dum.