This year the junk has been especially dark, all piled up, stopping the velvet from coming.
There was hope of the let-up after Easter, when shards of ecstatic provocation were discovered embedded in the rantings of the youngsters. Nevertheless the filth remained in the scribble; imbalances were aglow, and steadfastly indeterminate. The yellowish-brown shells remained circumspect, stuck in their blasé fastness. However their whorls are a clue to the way the let-up might recur cyclically, and with each phase of its return the infatuation with the modern will take the form of abuse, of both the modest and the monarch, especially, regarding the latter, during film matinees, leading to fights and foibles alike.
The whole interior of the cinema, under these circumstances, is an organic compound, doing the things that organic compounds do – breathing, circulating and ejaculating – and especially closely connected to the body’s cadences because of its digestion of objects: it is, after all, a kind of stomach, an organ that ingests, contains and expels.