like playing the harp without touching it. Things events speak. In the old days when the Word had more to it. So do images carry the power of fulfillment now. In the AfterWorld. Case subject #1, a middle aged woman sitting on the subway train like an old widow who spends the days crafting wicker baskets. Sealing her body in cheap black cloth she is an artifact. And she keeps talking on her cellphone. Every text message she sends or receives is a taint. One step further away from the fields and the sun of her flesh. She is the avatar of a border or a gateway in black powered by the spiral attrition of a fluorescent god. Lisbon circa 2007 is Alzheimer's it hit me. Memory crunched into a pulp by secret insect machines from the future with no identity. The signs of Times rammed through the retina and are now lodged in the optic nerve. Taking revenge on History all roads lead everywhere and the records. Saturated and teared and discrepancies open us up for the people of tomorrow and give birth to newold hybrid monsters. Case subject #2, a man on the train sits beside me. He's a mad criminal and talks to himself sentences in loops until the ticket man comes for him. The ticket man comes - straight at him. Like he's done something wrong breaking like a bleach stain. The guy got up told him something I couldn’t understand and they both left with foreign language I heard all my life. They were there just playing by alien rules. Hiding in plain sight in between the currents of the machine.