The Sickly Cultural Pathos Which The Whole

The Skylines Lit Up At Dead Of Night, The Air-conditioning Systems Cooling Empty Hotels In The Desert And Artificial Light In The Middle Of The Day All Have Something Both Demented And Admirable About Them. The Mindless Luxury Of A Rich Civilization, And Yet Of A Civilization Perhaps As Scared To See The Lights Go Out As Was The Hunter In His Primitive Night.

Deep Down, No One Really Believes They Have A Right To Live. But This Death Sentence Generally Stays Tucked Away, Hidden Beneath The Difficulty Of Living. If That Difficulty Is Removed From Time To Time, Death Is Suddenly There, Unintelligibly.

A Woman Spent All Christmas Day In A Telephone Box Without Ringing Anyone. If Someone Comes To Phone, She Leaves The Box, Then Resumes Her Place Afterwards. No One Calls Her Either, But From A Window In The Street, Someone Watched Her All Day, No Doubt Since They Had Nothing Better To Do. The Christmas Syndrome.

All Of [the] Activities Here Have A Surreptitious End-of-the-world Feel To Them:... These Joggers Sleepwalking In The Mist Like Shadow's Who Have Escaped From Plato's Cave

It Is The Corpse Of The Bourgeoisie That Separates Us. With Us, It Is That Class That Is The Carrier Of The Chromosome Of Banality.