This has been a difficult week. I’ve had a lot to catch up on because I’ve been away. These words were the only way I could make sense of some of things that have happened this week.
Drying silk smells like the seaside, did you know? A festering smell of fortune. This is their fortune. Great white sheets of drying seaside. Intricate twirling fingers around a gurgling machine. They’ve discovered a way of force-feeding chemicals to the silkworms so that they produce ultra-strong carbon string, string you could use to wrap around a criminals hands. This only means that the silk farmers can’t eat the worms after they’re spent. Protein shot.
Someone was shot this week and the whole thing was captured on camera. The look on his face as the bullets went into him shocked me. It looked so natural, even in a moment of such brutality. Almost painless. Unaware at all times that death was stood behind him. The words spoken afterwards meant nothing to me, and I knew that it’d be an injustice to the dead man if I made out to understand them. It was a death and I didn’t feel like politicizing it. It was too late. Don’t forget Aleppo.
A lorry went to a Christmas market.
I don’t want to talk about it.
The wise men brought frankincense.
Now foolish men bring death.
Deep, deep under the sea an old whale is singing, and he is so, so alone.