Where's my movement? Where is the flow that I shall take, the the wave I'll ride? Scratch that: these things do not follow movements: they create them - see their chance, dive in, fire off shockwaves and great ripple-circles that in turn trigger the next tsunami of ideas... Magic (I return), music, lit, and fucking: these four are the four composite elements, the humours and the horsemen, four sides, the bounding square of the hypercube... Write, right, left, and return: no red carpet, coming in soapsuds, no trumpets from the city walls - above all, no welcome mat - only the slow trudge of the return, the consummation, consolation, consumption of return: only the red brickwork, the city stone, the towers and the abbey and the bells, sounding their silent salutations. London and the world shall ring: I have a plan. No experience because no action is necessary. Only align yourself with sacred sites - the bookshops and the flophouses, the clubs and beds like stars on Slothrop's atlas. Bartleby and Lot 29. Move in; take over. Land presents itself. The hotels, hostels and the taverns throw open the shutters and french windows for your cool night air. I have a little hash, halved into sevenths: enough booze, piss & wine, to see us through. Only the books, and the morning star's slow tremulous passage through the sky. The vines, the earth, even the blood senesces. We shall awake early from winter, unfreeze neurons in the shade of evergreen oaks, shake off the long season's deep repose, search out, make known, show and make seen... Roots fumbling in the dark earth, trembling down thousand-year-old chasms, hewn by Roman architects. The black earth chunders, rents itself anew, flows into grottes and caverns, opens new fissures, exposes itself... New grass is seen on the plateaux of the high valley, among the villages, dormant, or almost, for millennia. Nothing has changed, and now: everything.

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