Norwegian Dreamworks 1
October 23rd, 2014
Bernardo Soares’ stature rises above the ruins of Detroit, Michigan, as I sit by the river that hasn’t yet got a name. Piles of stone, concrete and iron lie across it, and I dream of having an ability to soften the old waste parts of once young and great city, just so as to rebuild the glory and heart of it, in order for at least one dream of the most famous bookkeeper not to disperse.
If I could just swim across the river, lay my wet bones and skin on blocks, bricks, tiles, so they become workable again and then get myself into it as numbers fall off the ascending prosaic.
Make something work.
Make this shit work.
The ruins of Bernardo Soares’ stature rise above Detroit, Michigan. Half mad fisherman sits by the great lake. Fish dream of words there are no things for.
For some unknown reason – known unreason – there is a Russian border patrol nearby. I point to the whitening skies, where a ghost of the bookkeeper’s silhouette is becoming transparent. Look, I say, stature of Bernardo Soares! Instead of doing that, Russian border patrol arrests me on the charge of trespassing. The time is pure future – with no past or present. And is spoken about in future perfect.
This will have been my dystopian utopia. Or utopian dystopia, depending on the definition one gives to a glass that has an appearance of having equal amount of air and water in it.
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