My water bottle falls over. I bin it.

We are four men standing in a certain constellation. A fifth appear covering his mouth.

You read as a right angle followed by a 150 degree angle running towards the top.

I am walking against the wind. Three women and four boys speak to me in languages I don’t understand. The little boys t-shirt reads Air Bags.
Another young boy shots me.

I am walking along a deserted last avenue.

I am beyond the tarmac.

The wind is incredibly strong. Sand hits the back of my tights and hurts. My new friend is trying to keep a simple plant standing.

You come out from just under the table.

Sand seems.

There is nothing here that excites me.

You occupy most of this terrace apart from where the roof denies you.

100 kids are walking down the street ignoring the misery.

And then silence.

Just had a nap. Want a shower.

How precise can one be when describing wind.
I think he is coming down.

Suddenly I feel at ease. I might just have found the right place from where to manage.

A young man in a purple top is handing me a pillow to sit on. I like him. He likes me. He is of a violent nature.

The first star is out. She looks perfectly alive set against the darkening sky.

Several small ones follow rapidly.

You make up a complex pattern resembling your source as a two dimensional impression.
Moving quietly.

I am tired and dirty. Not disappointed but exhausted, trying to differ between the two.

A pick up truck with 20 singing girls.

A breeze blows gently from behind. Your presence is calm and quiet. Seductive perhaps. I don’t know what is more powerful - listening or looking. I find it difficult doing both at the same time.

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I am counting eight ants looking for food.

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Bits of blue plastic growing in a unique pattern.

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Distinct sounds, a donkey, a dog, a motorbike, the wind and the buzz in my head that one gets from being somewhere quiet.
It preoccupies and destroys all thought.

You are long and thin, running all the way along in both directions.

You are a little longer then your creator, running beneath him to appear semitransparent at the back.

You cover everything that makes you.

I am in an oasis. A young donkey with an innocent smile looks at me.

This is a different kind of place, with a simple architecture for maintaining growth. It is a control mechanism of sorts.
Perfected over centuries. It might fail for several reasons.
One being wind.
Another silence.

I can’t see you but I know you move accordingly.

Here the architecture is more brutal or functional, distributing sand and sanity as a temporary measure.

A man invites me to his house for tea. I deny.

I enter a village.
It presented me with silence.
I treated it accordingly.

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Girls are being taken over by a soldier on a moped.

A 10th appear looking sincere.

You are simple and modern, fading slowly, but not quite. Your master has fallen over, it gives you a distinct character.

I am feeling hungry.

You are covering me entirely. Slowly moving in my direction. You are gone.

An old and a young are sitting on the pavement resting their back against each other’s. There is a certain logic to their way.

The architecture is simple, it resembles everything else.

Having a coffee in the shade.

You pretend to be desperately and always are.

Apparatus.
Is wind is silence.

Destiny.

Pure reason.

They must produce their subject.

A young man removes a plank. The concrete has set. He is building a wall around his home to keep the sand out, to manifest a presence.

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I step on eleven exhausted plastic bottles. They all have a unique sound, without me wanting to describe them.

The landscape excites me. So vast, so photogenic. I deny.

A square piece of concrete 150x150 with eight unused holes. Once a sign. Now a work.

I am walking away. Out towards the coast, the nearest coast. It is hot. I fancy a dip. I fancy a nap.

Your author is dead, at least in your image. I am lying with my back against the window looking into the room. It is a small room.

I am awake wondering what to do. I was expecting wind, but can’t hear of any. What is the news? What is the news?

Silence carries little news.

Sitting up. Interrogating the author, he is as simple as any.

Looking down at my Reeboks, casting only a poor shadow in the dim light.

Having a Coke. The bottle is slender, modelled on an androgynies girl. I pick it up it’s heavy. The way the Coke runs through the bottle prior to entering my mouth is satisfying. It is now empty of all colour, as anything around here.

I feel kind of lost without the wind.

Indulge in the picturesque.

You move according to gravity, somewhat recording your own death. An economy of earthly logic, one of self-erasure.

I have done several tests kicking sand and I have noticed a distinctive pattern. This is not a scientific exercise but pure kicking.

The way you mingle with, are, or consumes the news is amazing. You have ended up sharing distinct features.

14 boys are fishing in what looks like dead water.

A beer can is stuck in the sand, faded on its south facing side.

I am now walking without sinking in. I must have developed a method.

Where are you from?
London.
Chelsea or Arsenal?
Arsenal.
Real or Barcelona?

Time.

I know that today wont last much longer.

Time.

Will take me to tomorrow.

3 boys are friendly, then hassling.
Kind but annoying.
As they leave the tall one says fuck you.

I am hoping to learn time and by time.

I seem to amuse them, which is nice.

What brought me here is time.

This seems a tedious game, but you have all grown long so that we have achieved.

The world holds its own discourse. Me merely an attempt.

The author and the interpreter.
I am merely an attempt.
Attempting silence and being time. I move because I need to. I move in silence. I move with silence.

A pick-up truck with 20 singing girls.

I leave a tip. I head for the end of the road.

The stars are out in significant numbers. I count one dead, four aeroplanes and the rest my contemporaries.

This one is beautiful. A simple negative composition.

The light has changed. It is somewhat flat and looks to make ground and sky merge.

The boys are running back and forth preparing for the days events. I am being offered coffee and bread.

The wind has changed.

I am back on the road. I have got the sun in my back.

I am walking on your slender image southwest. You are continuous only interrupted by a darker image of what keeps you high. Where you meet yours become insignificant or less important. Here for a short moment you merge. We merge. We go together for as long as we can.
You finish here.
I am now alone.

I forgot to buy water, I better go back.

I could only get a large bottle, which is fairly inconvenient.

I decide to pour half of my water out, as it is a hassle to carry.

They say you hold nothing but death, dirty beliefs and the desires of a modern world.

Last time I saw you you where dark. Now you are bright and clear and apart from a shitty little fly buzzing around my head, a nice place to be.

A modern tumbleweed makes its way out travelling towards the furthest coast.

I have moved and are now looking towards the mountains.

I have come to the end of modern matters in the pursuit of something. Looking out at something that is hardly touched by recent time, but just time. I am quoting your silence as the only sane option.

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I count fifteen peaks. The tonal high-pitched of a distant mountain range.

Plastic bags that modern day weed.

It is getting hot.
I am wandering the flat planes. My shadow is almost none.

I realise I have been here before, under the same sun in a different city.

I am on the ridge of a dune. I am having Coke envy.

The wind has changed direction. Might be bad news.

I am not quit sure what to say. For a moment I just need to indulge in the picturesque. I can’t deny.
And then silence. Sincere silence.

As I stand up I feel dizzy. Blood is rushing to my head.

It is difficult to walk in sand. My Reeboks are full of it.

You are hiding beneath your maker. Don’t be shy. You are here by the millions.

All packaging share the colour gone.

It is the time of the day where things go quiet, when one feels like lying down. I am having a coffee in the shade
looking out on an empty junction. A boy stops for a moment, puts his hands in his pockets, looks back over his shoulder and turns around. He decided to return to where he came from. He must have made up his mind.

He must have made up his mind.

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This is a wild guess, but I recon 3 eggs have gone into my omelette.

The competition is fierce among the young men. Everyone wants to show you around. I have been around a few times and learned that sand and silence constitutes most.

You read as a pathetic image of yourself.

People arrive.
The lack of wind or the right wind gets them out.

Soon you will be more impressive and impose your image right across the street.

I am moving the other way chasing my shadow.

You are simple compared to your source, carrying a lot less symbolic significance.

Out here there is an architecture of control. An attempt at keeping the road clear. It manifests itself as a pattern of
squares.

As any system of governance that has been set in place to control the masses, this one operates by means of disrupting views.

The road is taking a left.

A car passes driving towards the furthest coast.

A moped in the opposite direction.

But then again, I shouldn’t forget that from now on my shadow will only grow longer for then to disappear.

The road takes a right.

And another right.

Right

Right

Left

I have reached a place where the economy of control appears to be loosing its grip.

Again you manifest an elegant presence. I have consumed a third of your content, leaving me satisfied.
I am sitting next to a swimming pool. I found it by accident. Music plays from behind, making for a rather civilised hour.

Your name is set in white, being well aware of the effect of your surroundings.

You appear in a row lying flat under water. The purpose of your creator is one you simulate.

My eyes are itchy and worn.

Right.

Left.

Left.

Left.

Right.

Left.

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Boys approach me. They ask me to buy them a football. I deny.

Left.

I have been spending the last hour looking down. Looking at dead stars.

You partly exist within your master. Him containing his own image among other things.

I am again being tempted by the picturesque. I deny.

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The number of issues occupying my mind.

The moon is tiny. A new moon. The rest exist in dense shadow. I being here must admit being partly responsible. A new moon. Another round. I being here must admit to be partly responsible.

I being here.

For now.

Now you are gone.

A pick-up truck with 20 singing girls.

A pick-up truck with 28 singing girls.

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Plums. I ate one.

Are you cold.
Yes a little.

I am lying on my back looking at the ceiling. It is a starless night. The bulb is of the modern kind. Outside the crickets have died, I wouldn’t mind dying a little too.

You really don’t look your kind.

It is hot already.
Not really feeling it.

I am heading for the end of the road.

The boys are greeting me.

I buy a bottle of water.

I am off the tarmac.

The three of us walk together.
As we split I give you each a sheet of A4, you return a smile.

There is very little wind today. It is difficult to determine its direction. I decide to follow my shadow.

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I kick a stone nineteen times.

I am bored of it. Bored of things loosing all colour. Of silence making up my thoughts. Of 4x4’s aiming for the real
thing. Of dust gathering on my literature. Of the mirage commanding too much attention. Of my Reeboks obeying to the inevitable.

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I kick a stone six times.

I am walking towards the furthest coast for a dip and a nap.

I am constantly looking at the horizon for a change of colour.

I have reached a camp or village. Nobody is around apart from her dignity silence.

A fly is buzzing around my mouth. Now on the back of my leg. I try to kill it, but no luck.
I am shouting out:
Obama
Foucault
Marx and Michael
Pollock
Merkel
Nietzsche and Klein
Victoria
Santa
Baudelaire and cold Sancerre
Smithson
Jeanne D’arc
Chavez and Whitney
Benjamin
Goebbels
Jesus and Frank

It is hot. I better find shade.

The dunes are knackering my knees.

I am having a fight with another fly. They are stubborn bastards.

Your features are simple. As he fly you dance. As he lands you rest.

Two boys are running in the opposite direction. Each carrying two empty water bottles.

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Young palm trees are covered in plastic, cotton and sheep skin.

I deny.

I deny.

I am too tired to summarise your beauty, let alone you taste. But, as always I am impressed.

Together you make up a system. Could be one for navigation. Could be one for surveillance. Four elements sit at right angles around a circular centre.

I am lying down looking at the ceiling, all I can see is red sand.

I am knackered. It is so hot today and my knee is in pain.

I am not tired but disillusioned, finding it difficult to differ between the two.

Captured by memory. Sealed by writing. Writing does that.
And then becomes.

Time and writing.

I am having a coffee.

From here the view is the same. The temptation of the picturesque. I deny.

Time, memory and loss. Looking at the dead stars. Looking at an expanding universe, an expanding economy, an
expanding self.
Choosing
Editing
Counting
1234
At the table next to me four men are sat. Their daily conversation takes a quiet form, only interrupted by laughter.

Looking and time.
Trying not to fall asleep.

Being and time.
I deal in duration, I deal in death.

Sand slowly makes its way towards the nearest coast. Looking for a dip and a nap.

Here I am, sat in the void trying not to fall asleep. Trying to navigate my thoughts, using your ancient method, relying on your simple economy.
You might rise occasionally and gather your thoughts on change. Perhaps change a few things in the name of need. But your revolutions are short-lived and just a means for an altered landscape.

Remind me of your ambition.
Remind me of where you are going. You have got knowledge.
Remind me of your potential.
Remind me of your revolution.
Remind me of your state of being.
And bring me along.

And how you change occasionally.

The boys are mobilising their attack. Hitting at the been there done that.

The sand is rising, making for uncomfortable viewing.

Cover up your eyes. Cover up you mouth. Cover up your thoughts. Somebody doubts the human project.

I deny.

I am in the oasis with a young donkey.

I have arrived in a new town. One that doesn’t have an image. One that looks to have risen out of a storm. The void as concrete manifestation, as architecture. It suits the place incredibly.

Passing a graveyard. Many of the graves have collapsed under the heat of the sun.

My shadow has grown long, it sticks to my left.

I am tapping my finger to the beat of the music.
I feel empty.
I just finished a Coke.
I am beyond the tarmac.

The sun is setting in all its pompous glory. As with many things, it is just in these last moments one gets an idea of its effect and form.

The sun is setting in all its pompous glory, hallelujah.

The impossibility of change, hallelujah.

And then dark for a while. I leave my empty water bottle as a testimony to the day. It moves toward the furthest coast. If everything works out it will soon loss all colour.

A pick-up truck with 20 singing girls.

Bought a bottle of water.

Sending the postcards.

Two police officers come my way.
One of them is on his phone, the other wanders off.

I take a zip of water.
It is quite warm, but a thin layer of clouds keeps it manageable.

An old man presents his documents to one of the officers. After having a thorough look he seems to accept his
being.

I walk out a flat plane, with the wind in my back and my shadow to my left.

You are half the size of your author with highlights interpreting his content. I push. You fall.

I wish the sand would return and end my misery.

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To go.

A brochure caring the picturesque tumble away. I deny.

I close my eyes.
I try to deal with my dry mouth.

I have been here before on other occasions.

I find myself editing as I think.
Choosing nothing.

I am traversing a bridge.

I am walking in shade.
Through a dump.

I have done a full round.

It is raining.
My waiter says it is nice.

You are quoting your source.

I am sitting down emptying my shoes. The concrete is hot.

I need a piss.

I wash my head and hands.
I lie down.

You are an abstraction denying your own image.
You are an abstraction telling another story

I deny.

Now you cast no shadow. You are just your own brilliance.

I have to make a move.
But don’t know where to go.
My back hurts from laziness.

This is not a place to be.
I am at the end of the tarmac.
Taking in the views.
Making up my mind.

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Counting useless thoughts.

Having a coffee.