So many places uncover themselves, but you have to be alert. It’s a minuscule amount of this kind of information, this kind of puslse that would remain green or towering upright without prevarication. It’s that kind of city. But most kinds of cities revolve on the ballast of lies. We jungle through them all the same, sure of our own internal piety or that of our leader. I’ve come to believe in worship over the years. I believe in faith. But this faith comes in the detritus of our existence. An endlessness to foresight.
The faith I worship buries us in the end, putting us all to sleep so that something else might eventually occur. I don’t mean it to be morbid, deceitful. This, for me, this is the elegant whimsy of particles stretched across unknown boundaries, alive in the dull plastic of a forgotten and broken carousel or the oxidation of a prime Italian vehicle lulled into obstinate refusal until the winds cover it fully. Los Angeles, Verona, wherever you are, there is a gospel in the natural process of reclamation. A divinity worshipped by something outside of this fucking place. And yet, for a time, we can all be miniature Hannibals aboard our plastic elephants.
