Life and time are moving in circles, one endless motion, the same hand passing round the same clock witnessed by a million different eyes, each filling every second with their own treasure trove of occurrence and subsequent manifestation.
Walk with me, hand in hand through the neon and styrofoam. Walk the razor blades of broken hearts. Walk the fortune and the fortune hunted. Walk the chop suey bars and the tract of stars.
Walk with me. Down a dark road coated with a hazy fog that makes the streetlights shine brighter. I am not afraid of feeling but I am afraid of feeling unthinkingly. I don’t want to drown. My head is my heart’s life belt. I should like an emotional inflatable.
I know I am a fool, hoping that dirt and glory are a kind of luminous paint; the humiliations and exaltations that light us up. It is just as likely that as I invent what I want to say, you will invent what you want to hear, an exchange if you will, joint manifestivities. And they shall dance the tango as the record spins the manifesto.
A weak signal into the outer space of each other. The probability of separate worlds meeting is very small. The lure of it immense. We send star ships. We fall in love.
Walk with me. Down a dark road coated with a hazy fog that makes the streetlights shine brighter. I walk away with the taste of you between my legs. Part pleasure, part pain, the antennae of my nervous system still twitching with the hum of the air in the soupy space between.
(An inspired collaboration of quotes and improvised idealisms with lines and longitudes from Gut Symmetry by Jeanette Winterson)