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After a calculated paroxysm he continued the domestic mastication with some dish-washing. He ought to know better and not turn a one-hour commute to a two hours and thirty-five minutes journey up north. Pretending to read the erect notes of a Herma (1961) he would listen to a bouncing golf ball being kicked around and the best-love-song-in-the-world, in all the five covers, abandoning his face as it appeared amidst a book, on a train window. Words, his sand tower sifting through elapsed fingers and reef-knotted wrists, hyphenated his walks to the glass of a bottle so familiar. With all of last year' s anxious disregard for the keyboard breakdance and the violent introduction of the aesthetics of the nip's ink, he had became that other Munch painting (1891), looking at Caillebotte's Homme au balcon (1880), who in turn shows up again in the 1895 version of The Scream, beginning his exit only in 1909 (or 1915-18, accordingly). A balustrade.
Machine guns of light. Asymmetrical glissandi of windows. "A political act, to be done only once in a few years, and for which nothing in the daily habits of the citizen has prepared him, leaves his intellect and his moral dispositions very much as it found them."*


*C.W. Mills, The Unity of Work and Leisure, 1963