Perigee

Going out at midnight after listening to Khatchaturian's Masquerade Waltz my visual field took on the grain of a uranium Europe.

Sitting under halogen lights my field of vision as grain alluded me to a patrician Europe too. Doric columnar authority. Wealth. Pronunciamentos.

Locals here soothsay "they're from a good family." Old money, sandstone patricians by the water.

Suntans are beautiful because they say patrician.

A truck went past and it could well have been ferrying 20th century POW. Then it was an East Berlin in the 1980s. The visual grain, calendric epoche whirled through. Back to uranium in nightclub sips and lorries hurtling down internationalist townplanned streets. Street lamps yellow glow in try for wholesome sunshine. The giddying of starch and 1950s home is where America is.

The streets are empty. A lorry driver is singing and singing maybe because the streets are empty.

Here is the socialism I remember prior glasnost. That includes satellite states, Prague Spring, My uninformed haček romance. The way I crushed. The optimism of a time where if I come to it will hopefully retrochronally massage my limbics, amygdala and thalamus in an embodiment of a cocained-solder wiring.

The infraconsistencies of habits and the Hume Highway of New South Wales. The currencies cured by foundries, discovery maintains its claim through to the polymer notes. Disclosures for process. This the smooth anonyme. (typing now, the sound of mortal human voices sound, off-platform.)

I could throw the epoche all away, this schizophenomenology, first person accounts of visual and interioceptive chronosthesia lifeplace. Throw it out if measurement, as experience and recording, is happening always anyway. The double pincers, the complementarity – they just replicate.

That's the pattern. Pattern now predictions. Flowers fall from a height and I have no idea of their source. Along with the schizoanalysis – these two swim-fish.