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To do a play in a car one must not judge people by just one shoe, not to mention their cinematic ass or their intra-public sex life -us or them- and of course not by the demands of their wastelines. Not that they do not read, to paraphrase, or that architectural lighting is not important, that is the circling of creation, of god's gift to man [ go on ! call me s-ex-i-s-t, me the wo/man] but who can match mike nelson and nick cave together, apart from the noises of a bed, probably madein japan, and even though its pinks are stolen, the risk of the manifested playboy's not forgotten. Not back then in the days, when waiting was the thing. Where as now, the inbox is always full, and the plane always waiting. It's just us that we are eclectic. That's all. We can choose. Eyes, hands, fingers, genitals, drinks, songs, cigarettes, bars. Streets and cars and desires. E, synmplorites // Hey, (co)mariners