To The Director of Public Affairs
First let me explain. My art is meant to be anti tyrannical,
it is the intention of many men of letters to fly their kites
in storms. Whether or not it was you I meant to offend is another thing again. Do you pride yourself in sticking to the book, where
you the boy who threw away the paper if the pencil left the rule?
If so then I repeat: We have abandoned the dead capital of the streets, the new networks are virtual, we are marching as I speak.
We laugh at Marx, have buried the hatchet in his head, we sent some blueprints through the post to that effect. Set out to that city with no pavements from the tourism catalog. Upon arrival we raced breathless to the cinema, caught a matinee session of The Man called Horse. It was part of a festival screening; Richard Harris with those claws in his chest, the Sun Vow Initiation, could you imagine such a test, to prove your worthiness, your dedication to the interests of this mass of men you rule with pen? Didn’t think so Sir. What is the virtual comparison of dragging you screaming from your desk, tearing the emperor from his chair, the board of directors in a faulty lift, plunging to their death.
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