final act

An equilateral triangle with the mall, the cathedral and the museum as its three sides. A pendulum that swings between poles of sublime and oppressive is attracted in turn to each of these massive gravities. The triangle rotates. The resulting curve is the only thing that isn’t a map.

Why would you need a thing that is not a map?

To thread a thing that is not a labyrinth; a course that carries you from place to no-place, a rock tumbling in the void from which the béziers of streetlights are only discernable by radio telescope. A message in a bottle to no-one.

The impossible route from centre to wave is the only road that is not afflicted by chimaeras; only internet cafes and video rental libraries. The streets are paved with shells for obsolete models of phone, and tangles of proprietary cables grow wild on traffic islands unseen.

This is not a picture of anything.
This is not a dream.
This is not an exercise.
This has no referent.

The patterns in the baud rate are faces in the fire. The ashes are cold. They do not blacken the hands.

Shantih, shantih, &c.