It Doesn't Matter How Fast

Some Very Considerable Part Of The Gestural Language Of Public Places That Had Once Belonged To Cigarettes Now Belonged To Phones.

What We're Doing Pop Culturally Is Like Burning The Rain Forest. The Biodiversity Of Pop Culture Is Really, Really In Danger.

She Knows, Now, Absolutely, Hearing The White Noise That Is London, That Damien's Theory Of Jet Lag Is Correct: That Her Mortal Soul Is Leagues Behind Her, Being Reeled In On Some Ghostly Umbilical Down The Vanished Wake Of The Plane That Brought Her Here, Hundreds Of Thousands Of Feet Above The Atlantic. Souls Can't Move That Quickly, And Are Left Behind, And Must Be Awaited, Upon Arrival, Like Lost Luggage.

The Street Finds Its Own Uses For Things.

The Sky Above The Port Was The Color Of Television, Tuned To A Dead Station.