A Tube of Hindustrial Hadhesive

What kind of friend ... would fall down in the mud for you? We can never return explaining our absences as just part of history.

Iatragenia - a history.

It looks like the whole city is on fire - there are a few wisps of real smoke and steam coming from various smokestacks, but the clouds are low and give the impression of a flameless conflagration - a burning off of pestilence and greed. It could be the start to some epic story of displaced peoples and tragically decimated villages. In reality it is just the misty start to an early autumn day. It all washes over us. I keep seeing a grey-lit building somewhere between a hut and a summerhouse, made of wood and bleached by the salt air. It looks out over some muddy estuary; there is one large window, which gives the whole interior an airy feel even when it is overcast like today. I only have a limited set of adjectives to describe this building. The viscous, black mud revealed by the tide swallows any sound. It begins to rain. As the rain strengthens, the roof begins to vibrate setting up a resonance, which makes the whole room buzz. It is good to be inside though the door is open to let in the sound and the smell of the rain. It splashes across the doorstep and dampens the scuffed floorboards. There is nothing under these other than the bare sand and mud. It is home to a few insects but otherwise, this hut has simply made a desert in this damp estuary. A hidden desert. My dream is impossible to silence, a desire for calm and rest in a world empty of everyone.

The world is just a notepad. We do not need to write anything down for the world has its own memory, a list of events and people - no a list of all events and all people. There are the people who make a difference listed next to people who were vaporised before they could make their difference. One person dies and the world is forever different. We never know what one person's affect on the world will be. In our darkest hours we can imagine that no one would miss us and what the world would have been like had our parents never met but I know that this is an empty wish for every person not born changes the world for all those who were. The absence of just one child can stop or start a war. We are all the most important people. There is no point in wishing for what is not because the result may be worse. Destiny is only for the next day. I travelled away yet I cannot not be in this desert. We can only dance and hope that what we do for the world makes it better. The sugar builds us up and turns us into maniacs, thinking that we are supermen, ubermensche and un beatable scholars in this waterless sea.

The fiddles scratch a happy tune, are joined by pipes and singers to make the world happy and lit in the grey that is forever our lot. Destiny dances with dictators as they laugh and sing, their own futures unmapped and wanting a direction to take them away from the evil they will do. We turn them round with random moves, until the world has changed. You meet a friend on the street and your conversation in your own language enrages just one person passing by. They take offence at all of our kind and in two hundred years the world will burn with the passion of that hatred. We create the world just by waking up. We tell each other dreams, which mean nothing in our heads, but when they are told to another become the foresight which we use to explain the randomness of the world. I cannot explain my dreams but others can and doing this destroys their impartiality. My dream kills and causes floods. The stars explode because we dream. The nastiness of random acts becomes the greed of designed colonial building. All time is all time. All acts are now and I live from one end of the Universe to the other seeing everything. I love everybody. Poetry is created from the forces between atoms, the random decay of nuclear material causes words to spin into being. Take an arbitrary measurement of the creation and annihilation of quantum pairs at the boundary of a black hole and sooner or latter you will get a sonnet, a random but beautiful poem created by your choice of units. Pi has all the world's books embedded in it somewhere, and every great piece of music, every piece of music, written and unwritten. The Universe is ours by default.