overwound chronograph in sniper’s rear view. presses a hard stop in the escalating tension of the countless urban ambient scapes, sorts those blocks of bright concrete white, cherenkov blue and design grey against numbers, reasons, stereotypes. always waiting for that card to fall, unpacking a whole factory preset deck, shredding them on the floor. drinks morning’s first coffee on the balcony, watching drills over asphalt membranes. this is construction porn. this is a mental note. this is actual porn. this is a note. re-sorts urban blocks into narrative glitch. grey and more grey. with green. and sick pink. drugs don’t work. they never did. fifty pages of script in one sit. never standing up. not in years, really. concepts about how to change your perception in an urban environment with something anthropologists would call a tribal ritual. they would take photos, steal your soul. not that you had any. assess, re-assess, evaluate. repeat. too much diplomacy. too much noise in the head. stances against angles, angles within wheels. tracing the tracers, admiring the visual equivalents of traceuses. that is your future there. wide trail. with back against the wall, eyes on the skyline, sorting the blocks again. fighting like the midnighter, nihilist. foreseeing every move, giving the finger, walking away, their move failing. you knew what it was like. striking out from the shadows, using the empty fist. too much glue under mute.