Wednesday, 30 June 2010
silence as we watch the tyres treading paths into the flattened out harness of freedom. ancient freedom, modern slavery. each object in each row a replica of the last. bricked exterior with phoney tudor fronts. thickened glass stands firm, keeping bills down and humidity inside. keeping secrets inside. keeping seedy scenarios away from the face of the identical neighbours in their identical cars and houses. men in glass houses. everybody knows truth but it's scary so it's allowed to dilute into the distant subconscious. we'll dig it up when we die. it's carved into their torso's, chiselled into their features like the dreamy cheekbones of an anorexic russian whore. the baby girl is orphaned. "as long as the hand that rocks the cradle is mine."