Some Typewriters In Whitehall, In The Pentagon,

Someday She Might Replace Whatever Of Her Had Gone Away By Some Prosthetic Device, A Dress Of A Certain Color, A Phrase In A Letter, Another Lover.

So The City Became The Material Expression Of A Particular Loss Of Innocence – Not Sexual Or Political Innocence But Somehow A Shared Dream Of What A City Might At Its Best Prove To Be – Its Inhabitants Became, And Have Remained, An Embittered And Amnesiac Race, Wounded But Unable To Connect Through Memory To The Moment Of Injury, Unable To Summon The Face Of Their Violator.

There Is No Real Direction Here, Neither Lines Of Power Nor Cooperation. Decisions Are Never Really Made – At Best They Manage To Emerge, From A Chaos Of Peeves, Whims, Hallucinations And All Around Assholery.

Information. What's Wrong With Dope And Women? Is It Any Wonder The World's Gone Insane, With Information Come To Be The Only Real Medium Of Exchange?

Who Claims Truth, Truth Abandons. History Is Hir'd, Or Coerc'd, Only In Interests That Must Ever Prove Base. She Is Too Innocent, To Be Left Within The Reach Of Anyone In Power,- Who Need But Touch Her, And All Her Credit Is In The Instant Vanish'd, As If It Had Never Been. She Needs Rather To Be Tended Lovingly And Honorably By Fabulists And Counterfeiters, Ballad-mongers And Cranks Of Ev'ry Radius, Masters Of Disguise To Provide Her The Costume, Toilette, And Bearing, And Speech Nimble Enough To Keep Her Beyond The Desires, Or Even The Curiosity, Of Government.