Tuesday, 27 October 2009
That is the length, the hope, the number. We have forgotten Moebius, we have given up on the Standard. Chandler speaks to us through three hundred and seventy two divisions, and we reply, all of us in monotonous tones, one after another, each voice getting quieter and quieter, the consonants unclear, all of us lost in pronuntiatio. We are the star speakers slowly murmuring out, slowly out to fade and to nothing.
Writing by Adam Thomas (also known as Preslav Literary School) post copied directly from his Dichterische Fragmente blog

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