More From The Viaduct Notebook

It's hard to explain some forms of wanting; hard
to tell if it's me wanting or you. Neither of us will
ever take or I'd take myself back or you'd take
me away to and from too late.

The forks in the road are historical,
fixed moments now breaking down in forgotten
rifts. Time is not what she seems; not what
he used to be.

Before formaldehyde - before we started shaping
metal; forging it ... being stuck back then, at least
was more organic. Despair was softer at its rim,
before the possibility of one wrench which
was just a shade too large. A power twisting
hard over a bolt, leaving it stripped.
Nothing will ever fit it again. It's rounded
and tight. Think of it; rounded metal.
It's therestuck forever.

Locks without keys. So many of them. Artists are
locksmiths; messiah's strewn thin across our
clanging planet trying to undo what never
should have been done or twisted
so hard. All this metal that glints
bright grey in the light. The sun does not shine on
mechanical skins, it bleeds over them;
a womb that should be quiet and dark. Everything
has an undertone of red now, everything's
a bit off color and too bright.

Is there passion without compassion?
Machine sounds - I always hear them grinding
back ground and heaven - that background noise;
their answer: Assent - a stiff
resounding yessssss - I cover my ears;
a child lost in a twisting authoritive crowd.
Pulled in through the echo's internal,
all heartsound in here.
It's heart-wrenching.