City of garrets and all-night nature rants. City of the invisible line between smoking and non-smoking areas, waves of smoke billowing freely across this demilitarized zone while observers from both sides wo-man their monitors. City of freak scenes and bad acne, too much foundation and red blood dripping from the lip. City of faux-soundtracks to eighties jazz bio-pics shot in sepia-green. City of corn investigations, acid-rash and delta dreams. Waking up non-plussed by the miaowing of a miniature fridge, set to icicle. City of blather. Move along, please. Haunted by the disco-pup cruising at three o’clock, dumplings like miniature brains at an autopsy. Cleaning up after the big tsunami. Coin-drop can dispensers, grape soda rushes. Waiting to hit number one, for the counter to trip zero. Surprise me, phantom pants. Wriggle out of a stone. Borrowing a line from an anonymous abstract, bleatings from the online cyclo-pediatrics. Your cyworld homepage gives me the impression that you harbour tentative feminist fantasies. Suddenly the counter whirrs. Catching the emoticon disease. Hearkening back to the last time you ate shrimp. Shredding itineraries and placing them in the hulls of ashtrays. Add water. In this way the glowing coals can rest in death. Depth charge from an infinity whack of the timeless pressures of inner-city life. Bivouac by the poisoned stream where Bono bled for Africa. Hacks uploaded in binary code will not execute on this server. Mocking my own spasmodic lingo. Hours without speaking, days without listening. City without parks or gardens. Wandering women hawking doughy refreshments to the new warriors out on patrol. Listless seargeants wave them away. Bodily functions are expressed as mathematical end-games. Energies are short. Strapping explosives to the whining mule, then off up the pass. Planning a seven day journey from which you will be back in five days’ time. Ponder the deleted histories of the last half hour. Spider diaries. Whip-cracks. Lonesome peaks, jagged.