We live in a world of glass. London is its capital. It only exists in its own reflection of itself. The images form a spiral which does not pierce to the centre of the earth – the corkscrew does not open any bottle: it is holes in the glass it makes. Under the surface no abyss, above the glass no sky – only its reflection.
We hold the mirror and Misery combs her hair before it.
We live a love of glass. Specular alphabet by which we compose, decipher and translate our illusions, it coils back into itself as a snake, feeding its body its own body, geometric theorem of paradox by which no opposition exists between Zenith and Nadir. Alchemical dictionary, strangled phrase which swallows itself, Vice Versa and Abracadabra, Ulysses’ Ithaca further unknown to him returning than the far lands he has known when leaving –
Ancient Penelope weaving, unweaving, the eternal thread through which speak the endless sailing, the eternal return of the Ancient, unrecognized, spouse, blindly we move across the circular harmonies of being.