Plans of inaction line the path
like stone statues of apes each
depriving themselves of a specific
sense. We have our own giants
in chains beneath the earth, and
their freedom is dependent on
our capacity for conflict and violence.
Inventing new futures using scraps
from the past. Like a philosophical
junkyard with no care taker and no
watch dog. We take what we need
from those places, and bolt them into
position with rusted tools.
When it starts it will sound like
nothing we’ve ever heard before, and
it will carry us above the concrete,
like the wind carries the clouds
across the sky.
Teleporting Typewriter 