Could this be the vibration we had
withdrawn from, or caused to play? The
plane landed in Belgrade softly. We, together
in a room at last, watched Fantomas,
thinking of doors within doors, the
spirit a moveable hinge. I should not say
spirit, for you do not recognize it.
By recognize I mean see towards it, around corners.
'So medieval' you thought, a thought forced, and forced into
the top of words, but not seemed-forced;
it seemed simple. I could not drown in architecture,
but I could drown in clouds of data. Or so she
said when she left. Or so the city, stretched
forward into the yellow mist, yellowed. And
the last line was longest, delivering the
bodied mass to cubed labor.
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